In Shadow
by UnholyMuse
Summary: Pre-Series AU. The boys are put in separate foster homes after John is sent to prison. Five years apart in very different lifestyles sees them eventually reunited. Will their bond survive after years of separation and abuse? Contains abuse & rape.
1. Chapter 1

**Story Notes:**

This is a seriously AU pre-series story that deals with a very dark "what if?". The basic premise is this: sometime in 1988 John Winchester is arrested after he takes out a pack of werewolves (and is naturally considered a 'serial killer' by the local authorities). The boys are put in separate foster homes and grow up in very different lifestyles. The point at which this story begins, the boys have already been separated for five years. Their struggles living apart, and their fateful reunion will be the however many hours' traffic of our stage.

**WARNING:** There are graphic scenes of violence, child abuse (both physical and sexual) in the first few chapters. They are not intended to titillate, but rather to be brutally horrible. I'm not writing the violence or abuse for the sake of having violence and abuse: I believe it's necessary to set the stage and to give proper context. Rest assured, though, that the violence **_does_ _end_**. This isn't just a catalogue of torture -- there's a light at the end of the tunnel that will result in some great brotherly bonding and healing. At least, that's the plan!

For those of you who have been reading this from the beginning, I am editing some earlier chapters for content, as I feel it would be more appropriate with a bit of censorship, considering the sensitive nature of the material. In essentials the text is the same, but the sexual content has been seriously toned down.

And so without further ado, I give you "In Shadow."

* * *

_April, 1993_

This wasn't where he wanted to be. He didn't bother wiping the sleep from his eyes, instead opting to revel in the darkness behind his eyelids so that he could imagine a morning much brighter than this one. He saw himself at home, his real home, in Lawrence, sleeping in his own bed in his own bedroom, enjoying the extra hours afforded on a Saturday morning without the annoying alarm waking him for school. In this vision he was a normal fourteen year-old boy sleeping in, and already he could smell pancakes and bacon and eggs downstairs. And Mom was still alive, of course, and she'd be peeking her head through his bedroom door any minute now to wake him up to come down for breakfast. And Dad would be waiting at the table, sipping his morning coffee with a scowl and telling him to get off his butt and get out and mow the lawn. And Sammy would be bouncing around with too much energy, talking about how Thomas Wolby down the street has a trampoline and can he go play later? Dean found himself grinning as he pictured the bright sunlight filtering through the kitchen window. He could taste the eggs, could smell the burnt toast, could feel his father's fingers ruffling his hair...

But those weren't his father's fingers in his hair. And that wasn't his father's breath on the back of his neck, either. Definitely not his father's arm draped possessively across him. And just like that the illusion was shattered. He blinked his eyes open and refused to allow himself to sigh in disappointment. This was his life. It was what it was.

"Mmmm..." Vinnie's voice rumbled against his neck. "You awake?"

Dean tried to slow his breathing to mimic the rhythm of sleep, but Vinnie wasn't fooled.

"Hey," he called sharply, giving Dean a sharp smack on the thigh through the blankets. "You know what I want first thing in the morning, boy. Go brush your teeth and get your ass back in here."

Now Dean did sigh.

"Yeah," he replied, peeling himself out from under the arm, hating how skinny his legs looked when they kicked free from the blankets. "Be back in a sec."

He took his time getting to the bathroom and brushing his teeth, enjoying the ritual of brushing, rinsing, flossing, gargling. He thought he actually had nice teeth, all things considered, and went out of his way to take care of them. It was a quirk that had earned him more than a sideways glance on more than one occasion, but whatever. He wasn't the one who had a sick thing for teenaged boys.

"Dean, don't you fuck around with me, boy!" Vinnie's voice called from the bedroom.

"You'll thank me when you're enjoying my fresh, minty mouth," Dean quipped, but hastened back to the bedroom all the same.

He tried not to shudder when Vinnie tossed the blanket aside for him to return to bed. He should be fucking used to this by now. But the sight of the man's rounded belly and the trail of wiry black hair cresting it from the waistline of his boxers up to his navel stood out so starkly against the too white flesh. The man had been athletic once, but had gone to seed sometime in his early 40s. Even if Dean's natural inclination had been for the XY persuasion, which it wasn't, this guy wouldn't turn a blind person's eye. And booze and drugs didn't make him any prettier. Dean had tried.

Schooling his gag reflex into submission, Dean lowered himself to the bed and eased his way back under the covers. Vinnie's mouth was suffocating him greedily before he'd even got himself settled.

"You're right," the man practically hummed with a grin. "Minty."

Dean nodded, trying to recover from the kiss. He hated it when Vinnie kissed him on the mouth. It was too personal, too invasive. It made him feel owned and bought somehow more than being fucked ever did. It was too... intimate.

"Love that mouth, pretty boy," Vincent said, sighing in contentment as Dean lowered himself beneath the blankets. "Better than mornin' coffee, that's for damned sure."

888

"We're outta milk," Dean called as he rummaged through the fridge for something to eat.

"Write it on the list then," Vinnie replied absent-mindedly as he pored over the classifieds in the newspaper. "I'll pick some up when I head out later."

Dean nabbed the grocery list from its spot on the fridge and added milk to the bottom of it, tacking it back on with the ladybug magnet.

"You want grilled cheese?" Dean called again.

"Huh?"

"I'm makin' grilled cheese," Dean shouted. "You want any?"

"Yeah," Vinnie said. "And a glass of milk, too."

Dean heaved an angry sigh and retrieved the frying pan from under the cupboard.

"Jesus, I just said we're outta milk!" he growled and set the pan on the counter. "Don't you fuckin' listen?"

The angry squeak of Vincent's chair scraping against the tarnished hardwood floor in the dining room was all the warning Dean needed to know he'd gone too far. It was his stupid, stubborn-ass Winchester pride that made him shoot off at the mouth, and it had gotten him into trouble too many times already in his young life. Vincent's anger was palpable as he thundered into the kitchen in thumping loud strides.

"Vinnie, I'm sorry!" Dean began, but was laid flat on the ground with one merciless punch. Everything went white and then black, bright stars flashing behind his eyes as he shifted his weight on the floor, trying to lever himself up. Rough hands at the collar of his shirt yanked him almost weightlessly off the ground, and in a blink he was slammed into the kitchen counter, his hip cracking against the countertop and his back arching painfully backward as Vinnie pushed him back further than nature allowed.

"You watch your fuckin' mouth!" Vinnie hissed in his ear, and he was so close Dean had to squint to see him.

"'m sorry," Dean muttered, trying to catch his breath at the suddenness and sheer violence of the attack.

"You know where you'd be without me?" the man roared, shoving Dean again so that his bruised hip reconnected with the countertop. "Huh?"

Dean mumbled something incoherent, which earned him a backhand across his already stinging cheekbone.

"Spread-eagled down some back-alley!" Vinnie spat with disgust. "Gettin' porked by some John for five bucks a fuck! You're lucky I feed you you little piece of shit!"

The hands at his collar jerked him away from the counter and shoved him forcefully to the floor, his knees hitting with a crack that elicited an unwilling cry of pain. Dean bit his lip and breathed deep through his nose, trying to fight back tears of pain. He would not fucking cry.

"I should throw you back out on the street," Vinnie threatened. "Would serve you right, you ungrateful whore!"

It wasn't the first time Vinnie had threatened him with eviction, but it didn't scare him any less for its lack of originality. Much as Dean hated being kept by the man, life on the streets was so, so, so much worse. At least with Vinnie he had a warm bed, regular meals, hot and cold running water, showers whenever he wanted them, and even TV. On the streets there was hunger, and cold, and rain, and danger. There were beatings and rapes and cops and fucking rats... No, Dean figured he would put up with just about anything from Vinnie if it meant he didn't have to sleep a single night on the streets again.

"Please, Vinnie," Dean begged, his hands raised defensively in front of his face. "You've been real good to me, Vin... I don't know why I say the things I say sometimes."

Anything less than complete submission would make the beating continue, or worse. Dean really was worried that Vinnie would throw him out: the threats were becoming more frequent, which meant he'd thought about it often enough. And since they'd cut back Vinnie's hours bouncing at the club, having the extra mouth to feed was probably looking like an unnecessary expense, even if it meant he woke up every morning to a fresh-mouthed blow job.

"Because you've got a big mouth, that's why," Vinnie growled.

Dean tried for his most coy look, hating himself for the lack of shame.

"What, this mouth?" Cocking an eyebrow, quirking a grin, licking his lips delicately. He inched his way closer on his throbbing knees. "I thought you liked my mouth. Isn't that what you said this morning?"

Vincent's anger made way for new emotions at the memory of the kid's warm lips around his shaft, and especially at the sight of his frightened, hopeful eyes looking up at him from the bulge of his jeans. A tremor ran through the kid's frame, whether of fear or anticipation, Vincent didn't know. But it made him aching hard. Quick like lightening he whipped a hand out and fisted a handful of short-cropped sandy blonde locks, twisting the boy's head back and smiling at the twinge of pain that flashed in those mossy green eyes.

"You want it?" he asked, practically snarling.

_Oh hell no!_, Dean thought, wanting to struggle. But struggling really would get him kicked out.

"Yeah," he panted instead and he saw Vincent's pupils dilate with desire, mistaking Dean's breathlessness for want and need rather than the fear it actually signified.

And then he was being dragged by his hair to the dining room, shoved face first onto the table with one arm twisted tightly behind his back, the strain nearly pulling his shoulder out of the socket. He couldn't help but squirm: his shoulder burned so hot he thought he might scream.

He was barely aware of the hand at his belt releasing him from his jeans until he felt the warmth of skin against his thighs and felt Vincent's flesh brush against an exposed cheek.

"You like it rough?" Vincent growled, twisting his arm tighter and eliciting a hiss of pain.

"Yeah," Dean ground out, biting his lip and squinting his eyes shut tight in anticipation. Playing along would make Vincent happy, which meant he'd be less likely to get bored with him and toss him out on his ass. No Dean didn't fucking like it rough. He didn't like it at all. But he knew what Vincent liked and if giving it to him kept him off the streets then he'd suck up his pride and fear and play along.

Fuck it hurt. Most of the time Vincent was at least decent to Dean when he fucked him. It wasn't good: it was never good. But at least he took the time to prepare and stretch him. Not this time, though. This time he barreled ahead, forcing his way through the tight space with brute force. Dean listened to the usual litany of grunts and moans of 'Feels so good,' and 'So fucking tight' with a rare sense of detachment. It was good to drift away when he was in the moment like this, and the wrenching pain in his shoulder as Vinnie tightened his grip and twisted it higher, higher, higher still until he cried out in pain was plenty distraction from other unpleasant things.

He kept his eyes squeezed shut as tightly as he could, trying to ignore the pain that was building in his shoulder as Vincent wrenched his arm mercilessly behind his back. It was too much. He could feel his arm coming apart at the shoulder as the man behind him lost himself in his animalistic fantasy.

"Ow! Vin, you're hurting me!" Dean cried, trying to inch sideways to relieve the pressure in his shoulder. "My arm... stop!"

"You like that?" the man panted, picking up the pace and gripping his arm tighter.

Oh God, he was tearing his arm off! White hot pain exploded in his shoulder with a sickening pop, and Dean nearly passed out at the feeling of grinding bone and muscle. He screamed.

"STOP!" begging in desperation. "Please, my fucking arm... _STOP!_"

Instantly his arm was released, falling like a dead weight against his side. He panted in agony as Vincent reached his climax and exploded in a rush of dirty expletives that would have made him blush if he wasn't what he was. Then he was cradling his ruined arm against his chest, his forehead pressed into the table as he panted through the pain. Vincent shifted behind him, tender now, spent.

"You okay?" he asked, running a hand fondly through the boy's hair and brushing a chaste kiss on the back of his head. "God... you just drive me crazy, kid."

He was sated now, content, all his anger burned away through his exertion. It was like he finally noticed that Dean wasn't getting up, was still slumped over the table breathing heavily as though he'd just run a marathon.

"Hey," he called. "Dean, did I hurt you?"

"Yes, you fucking hurt me!" Dean cried, gasping as the limb tucked beneath his chest throbbed with blinding intensity. And he hated himself because he wasn't just crying now, he was sobbing. He had tried so hard to give Vinnie everything he wanted and most of the time the guy seemed like he was even happy having Dean around. They'd fallen into a routine that was almost... comfortable. He'd even come to trust the guy. Though Vinnie had hit him before, he'd never really hurt him. Not like this.

Now he felt like he was truly stuck between a rock and a hard place: because Vinnie had just brutalized him, hadn't he? And if he was capable of that, he might do worse. Or he might not hesitate to throw Dean back on the streets. Dean would take Vinnie at his darkest if it meant it was just Vinnie. He couldn't go back to the streets. He just couldn't.

"Oh baby," Vinnie whispered, all tenderness now. "I'm sorry. You just... you don't know what you do to me. Get me all turned around, askin' for it like that, all hot and sweet and makin' those sounds I love just for me..." He laid a reassuring hand on Dean's injured shoulder. "I guess I just got a little carried away."

Dean nodded that he understood, even though he really didn't, and sniffed back his tears, trying to stifle his sobs. He was grateful when the man helped him with his jeans because his left arm was useless. Righted at last, he saw that Vinnie was looking at him, holding him at arm's length as though appraising him.

"We good?" Vinnie asked him, a small shy smile playing at his lips.

Dean nodded again, his breath hitching. Rough fingers brushed the tears off his cheeks and then he was pulled in for a tight hug.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Vinnie whispered. "You know I didn't meant to hurt you, right?"

"Yeah," Dean admitted quietly, wishing to God Vincent would just let go because the hug was putting pressure on his murderous shoulder.

"You just drive me crazy," the man repeated.

It was starting to make sense: Vincent's mood swings, his outbursts, his violence. With less money coming in it was likely he'd had to cut back on some of his recreational habits. He always got edgy and pissy when his drug supply ran low, and in all likelihood it had run out by now. Dean knew that if it was between him and the drugs, Vinnie would choose the drugs in a heartbeat.

"I'm okay," Dean managed at last, gulping past the agony blooming through his shoulder and putting on a brave face. "You want that grilled cheese now?"

Vincent patted his head affectionately, running a hand along the side of his face.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, almost in awe. "You just got the face of an angel... such a pretty, pretty boy."

The well-intended compliment made Dean's blood run ice cold but he tried to keep it from his eyes. Being beautiful is what got him into this mess in the first place.

888

"Five more minutes..."

It was the awesomest dream he'd ever had, though as consciousness crept back it was getting harder and harder to hold onto it. He'd been some kind of superhero, fighting monsters with two other superheroes, and they'd been driving around in a cool black vintage car. He couldn't really remember their faces, but in the dream he'd known them well, as though they were family or something. And it was weird because they weren't his family – they weren't his mom or dad or even his little sister. They were strangers, but in his dream it was as if he'd known them his entire life.

"Sam!" his mother's voice called again, more sternly this time. "Five minutes or I'm coming in there with a hose. I mean it!"

"But it's Saturday!" he groaned, thinking how cosmically unfair it was to be dragged out of bed at 8:30 on a Saturday morning when every other kid he knew would be lounging in bed until at least 10. His family officially sucked.

"And your grandparents expect us at 9:30!" his mother reminded him sternly. "That means I want to see your butt out of bed and in the shower in the next five minutes, mister!"

"You want to _see_ my butt in the shower?" Sam teased, which earned him an angry scowl as his mother poked her head through his slightly-ajar door.

"Don't be cute," she warned, but he could see she was trying to stop from grinning.

Sam stretched leisurely and peeled himself out of bed with a heavy sigh. Breakfasts with grandma and grandpa were _boring_ and lasted for hours. He wished he didn't have to go, but Mom and Dad insisted that as long as he lived under their roof he'd be going to family functions. Period. It wasn't so bad sometimes, especially when the gatherings were bigger and his cousins were there. But Saturdays were just his family and the grandparents, no other grandkids to keep him or Suzy company. And they didn't like it when Sam read at the table, even though they had a _huge_ library. So more often than not he was bored half to death.

Once he was showered and dressed, he found his parents and Suzy already waiting for him in the foyer. Suzy's hair was in pigtails and she was grinning a gap-toothed grin at her big brother that made him very suspicious.

"Daddy says _I_ get to pick where we go after breakfast," she beamed.

Sam glared up at his Dad.

"That's not fair!" he whined. "She always picks stupid Princess World!"

"Sam..." his father warned, running a hand over his slightly chubby face and sighing heavily. "It's too early to start with this this morning."

"But you always let her pick!" Sam fumed. "You always let her pick and we always end up going to stupid Princess World!"

"Really?" Dad countered. "And where did we go last weekend?"

Sam opened his mouth to retort and then paused. He'd walked into a trap.

"What's that, Sam?"

"Science Centre," he muttered.

Dad grinned.

"That's right. We went to the Science Centre last weekend because you picked. Now it's Susan's turn."

"But Princess World is for girls!" Sam countered. "And it's stupid!"

"Is not stupid!" his seven year-old sister retorted, giving him an angry swat on the arm. "You're stupid!"

"No _you're_ stupid!"

"No _you're_ stupid!"

"Guys!" Mom shouted, silencing both of them. "Seriously?"

Sam had the grace to look sheepish, though he was silently raging against the injustice of being forced to do what his annoying little sister wanted to do all the time. He loved her, there was no mistake about that, but there were times when he resented her a little bit, too. She was the baby and was pretty high maintenance for a little girl. She cried a lot, especially if she didn't get her own way, and she liked to spend more time with Sam than he was entirely comfortable with. She was one nosy little sister, always getting into his things and violating his privacy when his friends were around.

But it was more than that, though. He couldn't remember much about before, but Sam was pretty sure that he had a brother somewhere. Mom and Dad wouldn't talk to him about it – they said that he'd be ready to know the truth when he was older, when he was more mature. Sam wasn't sure what that meant, but he thought it was stupid. He remembered a brother, maybe an older one, but he couldn't remember his name or his face. It was more like a feeling, of being cared for, of being together through shared nightmares and shared fears. And at night he'd lie awake thinking about that brother, wondering where he was now and if he had an annoying little sister too. He hoped so. It was only fair.

888

The nurse at the free clinic kept giving him these pitying, sad looks that made him want to scream or cry or maybe even throw up. It was as if she could read all over his face what had happened to him, how he'd ended up here with a busted arm and bruised face. He watched as her eyes trailed over the angry red bruise on his cheek, purpling his eye, saw her inwardly tut at whatever her imagination conjured up as the cause for his injuries.

"Did you put any ice on that?" she asked him as she wiped gently at his face with an antiseptic swab.

"Yeah, earlier."

"Hmm..." She eyed him warily. "Care to tell me how this happened?"

"Walked into a door," Dean replied cheekily, grinning in spite of the twinge of pain lancing through his eye when he smiled. "Twice."

"You're cute," she said dryly. "The door nearly took your arm off, too?"

Dean nodded emphatically.

"It was vicious," he conceded. "I think it might have had rabies."

She sighed.

"I hear there's a lot of going around these days. Among other things."

Of course she knew what he was. He'd been here before to be treated for some of the more rigorous beatings he'd taken when he was on the streets, not to mention to get a few nasty infections treated. All the rent boys came here because no one asked any questions, or if they did, they didn't bother with the answers. He didn't remember having seen her before, but she was looking at him as if she'd seen him. Maybe it was more a matter of knowing what he was, than who he was. Oh yeah, she had his number all right.

"The doctor will be with you soon," she said conversationally, still eying him with that cautious scrutiny that showed she was working things out in her head. Maybe calculating the best way to approach him.

"You know there's a shelter down on 5th. If someone's bothering you, maybe you could lay low there for a little while..."

Dean would have laughed if he didn't feel so damned hollow.

"Been there, done that," he said instead. "Got a concussion and head lice for my troubles."

She didn't make any further attempts to 'save him' after that. He could see from the look on her face that she wanted to, but they both knew it was a lost cause. When he was 16 he'd get himself a real fucking job and leave this sleazeball existence far behind him. He didn't care if it was slinging hamburgers or cleaning up trash – so long as it paid real money for honest work and didn't allow anyone to put their fucking hands on him ever. He still didn't know what he'd do about an apartment: they didn't let you rent if you were under 18. But he'd work something out. He had to.

If you'd asked him at age nine what he'd be doing when he was fourteen, whoring, homeless, and alone would have been the last answer he'd ever have been able to conjure up. His answer would have been simple and two-fold: hunting and looking after Sammy. But that was before the bottom dropped out, before Dad got arrested for taking down a pack of werewolves. Serial murderer, they called him. Sentenced him to death, though as far as Dean knew he was still on death row. Probably would never see the bad side of a lethal injection if the bleeding heart public defenders had their way, what with the insanity pleas they kept trying to push. Fact was John Winchester did come across as more than a little nutty.

But Dad's arrest had been like a nuclear blast, Hiroshima, to the Winchester family unit. Dean and Sam lost in the system like discarded pieces of trash, inevitably separated and placed in foster homes. Dean couldn't stay in any one place for long, his need to find Sammy was so strong. The separation had been soul-crushing, cleaving his heart cleanly in two, where it hemorrhaged until he was little more than an empty shell. Every new home he came to brought new opportunities to make his escape and find Sam. He'd run away but never got very far. Turns out it was hard to get around when you were only nine, even when you were resourceful like a fox. Even when you were Dean Winchester.

When he was eleven he'd gotten really desperate. An angry foster-father with eager fists and a quick temper had driven him to run again, hoping against hope that this time he'd finally find Sammy. Instead he'd found the bowels of New York City's night life, lost, frightened and alone. And then someone who worked in the trade had found him.

'_Hey kid! Anyone ever tell you you got the face of an angel?'_

They say no one chooses this life. Circumstances force you into it, one way or another. There had definitely been no choice for Dean. No door number one or number two. No options at all. He'd been eleven. He'd been frightened. And he'd been pretty. Those factors combined made him easy prey, and he'd been preyed upon by human monsters with voracious appetites. Used, abused, traded, shared... He'd been a party favour. The pretty little boy with blonde hair and the face of an angel. The pretty little boy with the cock-sucking mouth.

His mouth was now infamous, both for what he could do with it and for the things he was known to have said. For no matter how many times they tried to beat him down, they could not staunch the fire inside him. He was a defiant, mouthy kid – invited a beating with every syllable he uttered. He could throw a punch too, and if you were off your guard he'd take you down. See, his Dad had taught him a few things before he got arrested.

But again, in combination his fire, his mouthiness, and his willingness to fight back were a dangerous mix. Got him into trouble even on quick jobs. Made the streets especially dangerous, and they were dangerous enough without him inviting trouble.

So he'd shacked up with Vincent. It was a safe option. A smart option. It kept him out of trouble. And he'd learned when to lie down and just take it, when fighting back would just make things worse. There was no room for pride in this miserable existence, so Dean tucked it away and locked it in a box somewhere deep inside his soul. When he was older and he was free from all this, he'd bring that box back out into the light, dust it off, and let his pride back out. Then maybe he'd be able to look at his face in the mirror without hating what he saw. Maybe he'd be able to face his own reflection and not flinch away in revulsion.

When he'd accepted his life as a gutter rat whore, he'd stopped looking for Sammy.

"Alrighty then," a male voice suddenly cut into his thoughts, startling him with a jolt. "What seems to be the problem, Dean?"

Dean sighed in relief. It was Dr. Morgan. He'd already been to see this guy a few times and knew he could trust him.

"My shoulder," Dean confessed. "I think I dislocated it."

He didn't even flinch when the doctor moved in closer to begin his examination.

888

Jason Kitts was a liar. Sam watched him with narrowed eyes as he fiddled with his Gameboy console, convinced that his best friend had broken the thing and lied about it. It was working just fine this morning.

"Hey Sam," Jason said conversationally, "You wanna play Mario Cart?"

"That's boring!" Sam huffed. Jason was always wanting to come over and play with Sam's stuff, but they'd already beaten all the levels in Mario Cart and it really wasn't fun anymore. Even the Rainbow Road stuff was easy now.

"You wanna work on our fort?" Jason suggested.

That was what Sam was hoping he would suggest, and was the reason he'd invited him over in the first place.

"Mom says you can stay for dinner, if you want," he offered.

Jason shrugged. No commitment either way.

Working on the fort was great fun. The Wesleys had a huge yard and the woods out back were the perfect place to build a fort. Of course, the fort so far consisted of a few unused scrap pieces of 2x4 scattered on the mossy forest floor, with some rotted planks of pressed wood from the old Baby Barn nailed to a couple of scraggly birch trees. It wasn't a fort so much as a disaster of engineering, but neither boy really knew how to use a hammer, they only had a handful of discarded nails that Jason had snuck from his father's tool shed, and the basics of construction were completely missing from the boys' lists of acquired skills. Working on the fort usually degenerated into huddling together on a log and eating snacks and talking about school or TV or whatever was on their minds.

"Shelly says that her friend Trina's house is haunted," Jason said in all seriousness.

Sam was skeptical. Shelly was Jason's older sister and she had a very active imagination. Last year she told Sam that she had super powers like Kitty Pride and that when she became a teenager she'd be able to walk through walls. He might be gullible and naive, but he wasn't that gullible. So if she said someone's house was haunted, she was probably lying.

Still, ghosts kinda freaked him out. It brought back vague memories of salt lines and shotguns and a deep gravelly voice chanting in Latin.

"Shelly's a liar," Sam said sullenly. "Just like you're a liar. You broke my Gameboy, admit it."

Jason paused mid-chew on a mouthful of chips and grimaced.

"'mm shor Sham," he offered weakly by way of apology, then finished his chewing in a rush and swallowed. "Sorry. But your Mom and Dad are loaded. They can buy you another one."

"Doesn't mean they will," Sam sulked. "And anyway, you shoulda just told me when you did it."

"I know."

He really did look sorry so Sam decided that he forgave him.

"How come Trina thinks her house is haunted?"

Jason grinned, his brown eyes lighting up.

"She said that, at night, she can sometimes see a girl standing in her doorway, and the girl's all pale and bloody and stuff, and the lights will flicker and the room will get real cold and then the girl just disappears!"

That did sound freaky. Sam didn't know what he'd do if he saw a pale bloody ghostly figure standing in his doorway. He gulped reflexively.

"Did it... say anything?"

Jason shook his head no.

"Just stands there sometimes," he intoned. "Like it's lost or waiting or something."

"Have you seen it?" Sam asked breathlessly.

"No way," Jason said. "I want to, though. You think she'd let us come over and see it?"

"Are you nuts?" Sam exclaimed. "She's your sister's friend! We don't wanna go over there! Besides, if it's a ghost maybe we should stay away."

He still wasn't sure if he believed in ghosts, but if they were real and one was nearby, he was pretty sure he wanted to stay as far away from it as possible.

"But it'd be cool, wouldn't it?" Jason said earnestly. "To see a real ghost?"

Sam was quite glad that the woods were close to his house, and that he could see his house from here, because talking about ghosts was starting to freak him out a little bit. Not that he was scared – because he wasn't. Nuh-uh. He wasn't scared. But it was awfully quiet in the woods. And every now and then he'd hear a twig snapping and it would make him feel maybe a little bit nervous. And okay, it was getting dark out and there could be coyotes or wolves or bears and maybe he was getting hungry too.

"You wanna go in for supper now?" Sam asked.

Jason shrugged.

"Sure."

Later that evening they had a marathon of Mario World and Mom said Jason could stay the night. It was fun to sit around with Jason and play games and talk about how they were going to have a microwave in their fort and about how Ellen Myers at school was a bitch (though only Jason would say the word out loud) because she told on Jason for chewing gum in class.

"Sam, is it hard being adopted?" Jason asked all of a sudden, taking Sam completely by surprise.

"Huh?"

Jason furrowed his brow in thought and bit his bottom lip.

"It's just I was wondering... do you ever wonder about your real family?"

"Mom and Dad and Suzie are my real family," Sam replied defensively.

"I know," Jason insisted. "But I mean..." he shrugged. "Your Mom that gave birth to you, and your Dad-dad. And maybe brothers and sisters... Do you ever wonder about them?"

Of course he did. He didn't like to, because he loved his family very much and couldn't imagine life without them. But he hadn't been born with them – hadn't even lived the first four years of his life with them – and there were vague memories of another life buried inside him somewhere that he wished he could understand. So he did wonder. A lot. He remembered green eyes and long lashes and wondered who they belonged to. Probably his real mom.

"Sometimes," Sam admitted. The truth was he'd recently tried asking his parents about it and again they'd said no. They said he wasn't ready yet, that they'd tell him when he was older. He wondered how old was old enough. Practically ten apparently wasn't. They were probably waiting until he was eighteen. He really didn't want to wait that long.

"But I s'pose it's okay," he said, not really believing it in his heart. "I got all the family I need right here. I can wait 'til I'm older, I guess."

But he didn't want to wait. There was this part of him, like a secret part, that felt kind of empty, like there was a hole where something was missing. And sometimes he'd wake up at night with a really bad feeling and think something was wrong, but couldn't say for sure what it was, except that maybe somebody needed him and was missing him. And if his parents were dead, which he guessed they were (because otherwise why would he have been adopted by the Wesleys when he was four?), then it must be that brother.

Deep in his heart he knew that he was needed. So when they'd finally turned the lights out and Jason had finally succumbed to sleep in his sleeping bag on Sam's floor, Sam Wesley decided that he was going to ask again to know about his family. Just one more time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Notes:**

I hope this doesn't seem excessive -- but there are actual key exposition moments in here, despite the brutality of events to follow. I'm giving you fair warning -- it ain't pretty. But this is the last chapter like this because the next one takes the story forward full steam ahead. The boys'll be meeting up soon, after this next bout of nastiness.

WARNING: This chapter contains prostitution, violence and rape of a minor.

* * *

Chapter 2

Dean should have known something was up. Vincent was going out of his way to be extra nice, in spite of the growing rancor of his moods, the dwindling of his sexual appetite, and the shortness of his temper. He was out of drugs now and seriously low on funds, and they'd cut him back to only three shifts a week at the club. The withdrawal was making him cranky as hell, and he'd grown moody and introverted. So when he suddenly got all sentimental and decided he wanted to snap some candid photos of his young lover watching TV or reading a book or even sleeping, it should have immediately sent up red flags. At first he thought Vinnie was just trying to make up for the whole dislocated shoulder thing, but as the week wore on and the shoulder began to heal, he knew it was more than that.

Fact was Dean knew he was up to something, though he couldn't fathom what. He thought maybe the man was going to try to convince him to pose nude or something so he could sell the photos – which, no fucking way would he ever agree to that. Selling his body behind closed doors was one thing. Having it published in all its naked glory for every perve and his dog to whack off to was another story. Christ, something like that could get back to his Dad on death row, and the very idea of John Winchester ever knowing what a filthy little piece of trash his little soldier had become was enough to make him want to chug Draino and chase it with an arsenic cocktail. No fucking way.

But Dean really should have known better. Selling nude photos was small fry, and wouldn't bring in the kind of cash flow Vinnie was looking for. No, the man was much more inventive, had far better business sense than that. He was branching out into new territory, embracing technology in all its door-opening capabilities. Vinnie was utilizing the Internet.

He shouldn't have looked. He wasn't supposed to go anywhere near Vincent's computer. It was probably the biggest rule of living with the old perve in his apartment: don't touch the computer. And in the eight months he'd been living here, Dean hadn't so much as looked at the thing.

But when a vacuuming accident gone horribly wrong had left Dean with a wheezing beater bar tangled up with a mouse cord, he'd had no choice but to lay trembling fingers on it to make sure that it was still working. He had no problem admitting that he was completely computer retarded: he didn't know the first thing about how they worked or what plugged into where. He'd seen Vincent use the mouse to navigate from screen to screen, had seen him clicking as screens popped up and closed and shrank and grew. So when the vacuum sucked the mouse cord into the beater bar and attempted to devour it, Dean had done his best to disentangle it and make sure it was still working.

Thank fucking Christ Vinnie wasn't home: he'd have knocked Dean's head clean through the wall for the fuck-up. After checking to make sure that everything was plugged in (and it appeared to be all plugged in), he returned the mouse to its coveted spot on the mouse pad and gave it a little jostle, watching in intense relief as the screensaver blinked out and Vincent's e-mail inbox came into view. Dean heaved a sigh of relief and levered himself up on trembling knees, keenly aware of the beating he'd just narrowly averted.

It was the beeping of the Instant Messenger box that caught his attention, drawing his eyes to the message as it flashed before the screen.

_**Beemer59 wrote:**_

_The pictures look great. I am agreeable to your pricing terms. When can I see the boy?_

Dean gulped. Another message popped up almost immediately after the first one.

_**Beemer59 wrote:**_

_You can bring him to my hotel room in two weeks' time. Will be in town on a business trip. I will pay you in advance. $250._

He could do nothing but stare at the screen in horror, blinking past tears of outrage and indignation and humiliation. That fucking pot-bellied freak was pimping him out to strangers on the Internet! He'd been spreading those goddamned photos to God-only-knew what sickos online to lure in fat-pocketed Johns.

Dean thought he might be sick, and then promptly was, barely making it to the dingy little bathroom before emptying the entire contents of his stomach.

It felt like a huge betrayal, Vincent trading his body like that for drug money. Not that he had any attachments to him, because he sure as hell didn't. But all the same they'd been kind of exclusive to each other in this co-habiting business arrangement. Dean being with Vinnie meant he didn't have to spread it for anyone else: that was the whole fucking point! More than that, though, the very idea of that pig Vincent pawning him off on someone else, as if it was his right to do so, as if it was his decision who Dean slept with, made his blood positively boil with ire.

Wiping away the first traces of tears, Dean sniffed and attempted to regain control of his raging emotions. He'd just tell Vinnie no. No fucking way. He'd have to write his Internet buddies back and tell them there was no deal. Dean wasn't doing it.

Fear twisted in his gut at the very thought of having that conversation. Vinnie would knock his fucking teeth in – and if he was lucky that's all he'd do. He'd definitely throw him out. The withdrawal had thrown his sex drive all to hell, and with no libido to keep 'little Vinnie' in performing order, there was very little use for a live-in boy toy. His ass would be thrown to the curb so fast it would make his head spin.

_Fuck!_

Dean began pacing the living room, running his fingers anxiously through his hair, when the phone ringing nearly startled him out of his skin.

"Hello?" he asked.

"_Dean."_

"Hey, Vin..." He was aiming for casual, conversational, even though he was livid and positively freaking out, because if the man knew he'd been anywhere near the computer Dean knew he'd be revisiting the arm dislocation with interest. So he had to pretend that he hadn't seen those messages. He had to pretend that he was still stupidly oblivious to Vincent's plans.

"_I'm on my way home. Take a shower so you're clean for me before I get back."_

"Uh, okay," Dean said. Apparently the bastard had got some of his mojo back. "Sure Vinnie."

But when Vinnie came back into the apartment accompanied by a fat, middle-aged man with greedy, eager eyes and a knowing smile, Dean knew that things were so much worse than he'd originally suspected.

"Hey there, beautiful," Vinnie greeted him, reaching out a long arm and pulling him forward to greet the newest arrival. "There's someone here I want you to meet."

No... No no no nonononono.

"I'm Walter," the fat man said, reaching out a bloated, greasy hand to clasp with Dean's. God, he was balding and sweaty and so eager he looked ready to cream his pants at the skin-on-skin contact of this _un_holy palmer's kiss.

"Dean," Dean said absently, turning his head toward his benefactor. "Um, Vinnie, can I talk to you?"

"Not right now, Dean," Vinnie said, not meeting his eyes. "I've actually got some stuff I've got to do on my computer – e-mails to send and what not. Why don't you take Walter into the bedroom and uh... make him comfortable."

And he was already at the computer desk, retrieving a tiny plastic baggie from his pocket and shaking some of its powdery contents onto the flat surface of the desk. Dean watched in fascinated horror as the man separated the dusty white narcotic into separate lines, knowing now he'd already been paid for, knowing there was no way Vincent would let him walk away from this.

"Vinnie..." Didn't mean he wouldn't try, though. "Can I please just talk to you for a sec—"

The chair scraped loudly against the floor as Vinnie shot up from his seat and thumped angrily towards his trembling young ward, causing him to back up a few paces defensively. Grabbing him by his injured arm, Vinnie dragged Dean away from the front door and into the kitchen, where he promptly pinned him against the fridge and leaned in close to his face.

"Now you listen to me," he said in a low, dangerous hiss. "It's time you start earning your goddamned keep around here. Now that man paid good money so you're going to show him a good fucking time. Understand me? Or so help me God, I will choke the life out of you with my bare hands."

And to illustrate his point, his hands were suddenly around Dean's neck, tightening around his throat. Dean felt himself scrambling with shaking hands to pry the angry digits away from his neck, but just like that the pressure was released. It wouldn't leave so much as a mark on him.

"Get in there," Vinnie ordered in a whisper. "Don't. Make me tell you again."

It was a good thing Dean's pride was already locked away in that secret box, because the walk of shame to that bedroom, when that slobbering fat John, _Walter_, placed his sweaty, meaty palm on Dean's shoulder, he thought his soul might have just withered and died. But because he had no pride, he complied like a good little whore and did what needed to be done to survive.

It was only sex. And it was only his body. It didn't mean anything.

_Yeah, and you're only fourteen_, his mind screamed at him.

Dean did what needed to be done, got down on his knees for that sweaty pig, all clean and fresh and ready to be spoiled anew.

He wasted no time getting back in the shower as soon as Walter was gone, and was grateful once again for the luxury of having a shower. On the streets there'd rarely been opportunity to get cleaned up afterwards, to wash away the smell of sex and aftershave or cologne. With the water hot enough he could wash even the worst of his sins away. Or at least he could pretend he could.

Vinnie was waiting for him when he emerged, looking wild-eyed and kind of feral. Visibly stoned. Possibly drunk, if his slight stagger was anything to go by. And clearly pissed off to the gills.

"Did you like that, huh?" he taunted, his cheeks red with anger. "Did you like it when that fat slob fucked you, huh?"

Great. Stoned, jealous, possessive idiot.

That Winchester fire ignited deep in Dean's chest, hatred so hot and pure he thought surely he must be steaming, heat waves rolling off his young frame. He clenched his jaw, the muscles in his cheek jumping angrily as he fumed at the gall of the man standing before him. For the first time in his life he thought about killing Vinnie, thought how easy it would be to just slit his throat while he slept.

"Don't!" Dean said, his own voice dangerously low for a fourteen year-old. "Just... don't."

Vincent straightened at that, his eyes narrowing and darkening with inebriated ire.

"You tellin' me what to do, boy?" he demanded. "Cos I will box your ears you fuckin' punk!"

"Give it your best shot," Dean challenged, his eyes defiant and aflame.

This time Vincent's attack was easier to predict and Dean was ready for it. He ducked when the man swung at him, spun and struck with an uppercut to the nose that sent the larger man reeling back, stumbling into the computer chair and toppling backward to land unceremoniously on his ass. Dean couldn't help the satisfied grin that warmed his face at the sight, and didn't even hiss at the stinging in his knuckles.

It was a victory that was short-lived. Howling in rage, Vincent was scrambling to his feet in seconds, humiliation and anger sobering him and restoring coordination to his movements. Dean was already on the move, making a beeline for the kitchen so that he could arm himself. It only took him a moment of puzzled worry to figure out why Vinnie hadn't followed him and when realization finally hit his courage nearly plummeted to his feet.

Vincent was a big man, which was why he always found himself working as a bouncer or the occasional strong-arm for local crime circuits. Years of inactivity and being middle-aged left him pot-bellied and somewhat flabby, but he was still big – probably bigger than John Winchester, even – and he was mean. A few years back he'd worked as a security guard but had been fired for using excessive force in subduing a wayward teen at the local shopping mall. Apparently using his baton to bash the kid's brains out wasn't considered 'reasonable force.' He was holding that baton now, a memento he'd kept and had used against Dean only once before.

Dean hefted the heavy cast-iron skillet from the drying rack near the sink and levered it menacingly over his shoulder like a batter at home plate waiting for the first pitch.

"Don't you fucking come any closer!" Dean threatened, hating the way his voice cracked like when he was twelve.

"Put the pan down, Dean," Vinnie ordered, taking a few deliberate steps towards the kitchen. "Now!"

Dean shook his head rigorously.

"Just stay the fuck away from me!" he screamed. "I'll fucking kill you!"

And he meant it. He could see himself bashing the guy's brains in, could visualize his skull crushing on impact, could hear the crack and squish of fluid and brain matter and blood. Right then he _wanted_ to kill Vinnie, just to make him stop advancing on him.

_He can't hurt me if he's dead..._

There was blood gushing from Vinnie's nose from where Dean had hit him – probably broken. Dean didn't have time to be satisfied, though, because the man was advancing again and if looks could kill...

Everything that followed happened in a kind of blur of stops and starts, fast-forward motion and super-slow. Vinnie advanced and Dean struck hard with the skillet, catching the man in the shoulder and eliciting a yelp of pain. Vinnie's retaliatory strike to Dean's wrist was instant, reflexive, the baton cracking bone on impact and causing the heavy cast-iron implement to drop to the floor with a loud clang. The follow-up blow to the face had Dean seeing stars, and suddenly the ground was up and his warm cheek was pressing into cold linoleum.

He could hear Vinnie panting in pain and exertion, could hear the shuffling movements as he got up and shuffled down the hall. Now would have been the perfect moment to make his escape if he could move, but he couldn't. His head felt like it was broken and his arms and legs didn't really seem to want to move. He thought maybe he was dying, because he felt kind of far away from his body. Maybe Vinnie realized he'd gone too far and was calling 911?

Feet shuffling closer. He could see them as he blinked up at them, and then there were knees as Vinnie crouched down. Dean tried to turn his head to look up but immediately regretted that decision for the pain that bloomed behind his eyes and brought bile to his throat. Hands grabbing his hands, yanking them behind his back. And was that tape? Binding him, securing his arms in place behind his back.

"Vin..." Dean tried, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Vinnie... please..."

"You like that, huh, tough guy?" Vinnie taunted menacingly, his face so close Dean could taste the beer on his breath. "This how you want it?"

Dean could feel panic rising in his chest. His head was broken and Vincent wasn't even finished yet. With the fear came clarity as his survival instincts kicked into overdrive, giving him a fresh surge of adrenaline for that fight or flight response. The fog began to recede, his vision clearing somewhat.

"Vin... no..." Dean breathed, trying to find his voice. His head felt like it was going to explode, or implode. "_Please..._"

"Fucking whore!" Vinnie spat, jerking at Dean's belt and tearing his pants and boxers down in one motion. "Look at you begging for it, you disgusting cheap slut! You think I wanna touch you after you let that pig crawl inside you, huh?"

And that's when he saw the baton in Vincent's hand, black and menacing and glistening wet with some kind of lube. Dean didn't even try to stifle the sob as panic gripped his heart and choked him with it.

"No-nono!" he begged, squirming feebly as Vinnie passed behind him, beyond his line of sight, and positioned himself between his legs. "Vin-Vinnie, please! Don't!"

With the first humiliating stab of pain Dean's brain kind of switched off. Maybe he'd found that hidden box where his pride was secretly stashed away and crawled inside it himself. He was dimly aware of pain, and yelling, and his own broken sobs, but was simultaneously distanced and detached from it, as though he were watching it happen to someone else. Because that crying piece of shit little girl on the floor being sodomized by a cold blunt instrument could not be Dean Winchester.

It took him a while to realize that it was over, and when he came back to himself he was still sobbing, pants still in a bundle around his ankles, arms still taped behind his back, head still splitting in two. He cried until he passed out, only to find himself transported to Vincent's bed when he next opened his eyes. It was dark now, the small bedside lamp providing a warm yellow glow to the otherwise stark and empty room. Vincent was lying close behind him, an arm draped around him, one hand brushing the hair away from Dean's forehead.

"Hey, baby, you awake?" Vincent garble-whispered in his ear, and it sounded so sleepy peaceful and intimate Dean would have thought he'd dreamed the nightmare in the kitchen. But the pain in his head and his ass were all too real, the horror all too vivid.

Dean buried his face deeper into the pillow to hide his shame, his breath hitching when fresh tears sprung from his eyes.

"Shh, hey, it's okay," Vinnie whispered, pressing a kiss into the back of his head. "I forgive you."

Dean chewed through his bottom lip to keep from screaming.

"And I'm sorry about earlier," the man added, pressing closer. "About what I said – I didn't mean it. Not really. I do still wanna be with you."

Trailing wet kisses along his neck and shoulder.

"It's just when I think about you with that John, I get so angry..."

'_Well if you didn't want him to fuck me then why did you bring him here? Why did you __**make**__ me?'_ Dean bit back the retort, knowing it would only rekindle the anger and violence that had been unleashed earlier in the kitchen.

"I just gotta be smarter next time," Vincent went on, his fingers slipping inside the waistband of Dean's boxers. "I'll make sure I'm not around so I don't... you know... let you drive me crazy."

_Next time? Next time???_

"Vin... Please, I don't..." Dean began, but his breath caught in his throat when Vincent's large hand slid beneath his shorts.

"Shhh," the man cooed behind him. "Vinnie's gonna make you feel good. Show you how much I want you."

It was yet another moment of shame for Dean as he became aroused from the touch of Vincent's strong hand, the man whispering about how good it would feel. Dean closed his eyes and pretended he was somewhere else, with someone else. Cindy Crawford... yeah, she was hot. He imagined Cindy Crawford's long hair tickling across his shoulder as she leaned into him from behind, her long slender fingers gliding along his shaft as she worked him to a frenzy. His eyes rolled back into his head at the rush of blood pounding in his skull, the pleasure fighting with the pain of his injuries.

"That's right," Vinnie whispered in his ear, tainting the illusion. "Now spread 'em for me baby. Lemme in and I'll show you how much I love you."

Another moment of shame as Dean succumbed to pull of his own body, in spite of his own very heterosexual inclinations. Another moment of shame to drown himself in as Vinnie 'made love' to him in spite of the screaming pain of raw nerve endings in his abused backside. He cried silently as he rode the wave of overhwhelming pleasure/pain, and when it was over he fell asleep to the sound of his own hitched breaths, his silent sobs at how lost and broken he was taking him off once again to visions of a world where he had a home and a mom and a dad and a little brother.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Notes:**

And here we go, moving the story right along. We've got some more Sam in this chapter and then even some (gasp!) Sam AND Dean. We finally arrive at the plot (see? I promised there was a point to this story).

Chapter 3

Having a Dad who worked all the time sometimes sucked really bad, but sometimes it could be really awesome. Like now, for instance, when the insurance company that he was the district manager for sent the whole family on a trip so Dad could attend a conference in New York. They put them up in an awesome hotel and paid for everything. During the day Dad would go to his meetings and do insurance stuff, and at night the whole family would go out to dinner and do cool stuff like visit the museums and go to the theatre. Today was kind of boring because Mom wanted to do some serious shopping and said that Suzie would only whine, so he and his little sister were stuck at the hotel until she got back.

But it wasn't so bad. They had a huge TV and you could order movies and room service and charge all of it to the room, and there was a concierge downstairs who would bring them stuff if they asked. They'd started making a game of it, calling to see if he could bring them stuff that they really didn't need, like a thermometer, some candles (even though they didn't have matches), candy bars from the vending machine. It was fun to see how Suzie would fall into fits of giggles every time the guy showed up at their door, but if he was annoyed he didn't show it. Mark of a true professional, Dad would say. Dad would also kill them if he knew what they were up to but Sam reasoned that at least they weren't doing what that Kevin McCallister kid did in Home Alone 2. So really, things could be a lot worse.

There was also the pool, which they were allowed to use only if they called the front desk and got someone to escort them there and back. Sam figured that was okay, since he was pretty sure he'd get lost on the way there anyway, and Suzie would never let him hear the end of it if he did. He didn't feel guilty at all, either, that the Maitre 'D was left to watch them swimming, lest they drown. After all, it was part of his _job_. Still, he figured they could probably find their way back to the room themselves, and decided he'd let the poor guy off the hook once they made it back to the elevator. He wasn't a baby, after all.

888

_This guy must be loaded_, Dean thought as he took in the sight of the giant king-sized bed, noting with an amused smirk that it did not have magic fingers. There were all sorts of poofty-looking pillows lining the headboard, like the kind they have in the Sears Catalogue for designer bedroom sets. The adjoining room had a huge desk that looked like it belonged in some corner office on Wall Street, a couch and massive TV, a full fridge, and a bathroom as big as Vincent's apartment with a Jakuzzi bath and one of those bum-washing toilet thingies... a bidet? He seriously hoped this John didn't want him to use that before they got started.

In short, the place was a palace. In all his life, Dean had never been anywhere as nice as this. He felt like he would sully it by touching it and stood like an idiot with his hands stuffed in his pockets, trying to shrink away from making contact with any of the fine things in the room. Vincent had dropped him off about ten minutes ago with the strictest of instructions: behave and do whatever he says. And since the guy looked nice enough, Dean figured he could do that.

He wasn't as old as most of the Johns he'd seen, maybe mid-thirties at the latest. Tall, but not too tall, and slender. _Wiry_, he'd say. Short, medium-brown hair. Gray eyes. The man told him to call him John – which, wow, original – and offered up the room as his personal playground for the rest of the weekend. Because this was to be a weekend romp, apparently, so Dean was invited to make himself at home, watch some TV, drink some champagne, have a bath, and otherwise entertain himself. Vincent would be picking him up on Monday.

"Have some champagne," John offered, pouring the bubbling contents of a very expensive-looking bottle into a fluted crystal glass and handing it to Dean. "This is from France, you'll like it."

Dean doubted it but raised his eyebrows and took a tentative sip to be polite.

"Here, have a seat," John said, patting on the bed for Dean to sit there. Dean quietly complied, setting the barely touched champagne on the nightstand and sitting on the end of the bed expectantly.

"Watch some TV," John ordered politely, turning the TV on with a quick flick of the remote and settling back on the bed.

"Um... okay," Dean said, scooting back on his bum to lean against the headboard. Maybe the guy wanted to watch some porn while they did it to get himself in the mood but was too embarrassed to actually say it?

But John didn't move, opting to simply watch Dean watching television. Dean found it a little creepy but didn't say anything. He was here with this guy for two freakin' days – he didn't need to hurry to the groping and the fucking just yet. If the guy wanted to get his rocks off staring, he could have at it. Besides, they had cable here.

After about an hour and a half of being watched, Dean started to get a little uncomfortable. If Vincent knew he was just sitting here like a mook he'd probably beat the crap out of him. He shifted uneasily on the bed and turned to look at the John.

"Uh... Should I be... doing something?"

"Drink your champagne," John said with a gentle smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Dean swallowed hard and nodded, a strange feeling that felt like warning bubbling up in his belly. He picked up the champagne glass and took another tiny sip, tipping his head back a little to look like he'd taken more. He noticed the John was watching him, frowning at the attempt to hide the truth from him, and took a proper sip. It was really fizzy and burned in his nose.

The phone ringing cut this awkward moment short. John took the phone with an irritated and curt "Yes?" and then launched into a confused argument with who Dean assumed must be someone from the hotel staff. He slammed the phone down angrily and then went to a great deal of trouble to look composed and calm before making his way to the door with his keycard in hand.

"Please excuse me," he said by way of apology. "There has been an error booking one of the conference rooms for a luncheon tomorrow. I won't be five minutes," he assured Dean. "Please, finish your champagne."

And he watched and waited for Dean to take another sip, which he did. It was warm in his belly and made him feel kind of fuzzy.

Left to his own devices, Dean hastily got off the bed and decided to do a little exploring. He wanted to know what this guy's deal was, because something about him was clearly off. Everything about him was setting Dean's nerves on edge, making the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up, making his guts scream, 'danger!' in spite of the polite smiles and good manners. The guy didn't look like a serial killer, but then, neither did Ted Bundy.

He probably was some kind of creepy fetishist. Dean bet if he opened the guy's massive suitcase, which felt like it was empty when he tried to lift it, he'd find it was stuffed full with some kind of furry outfit. His other suitcases were heavy enough, the way normal suitcases were supposed to be. But the big one was light as a feather. Curiosity having already killed this cat, Dean threw caution to the wind and unzipped it. He was, therefore, not surprised to find it empty.

"Huh." Weird.

Biting his lip and throwing caution to the wind once again, Dean unzipped one of the two regular cases. The contents of this bag were the usual items: dress shirts, shoes, ties, shaving kit, toiletries, socks, undies... Everything your modern-day traveling man needs to live in comfort.

"Let's try door number three," Dean muttered as he unzipped the third and final bag.

His breath caught in his throat and his heart sped up to warp speed. The items in this case were not quite so innocuous. Rope, knives, a bottle of chloroform, handcuffs, a machete... He remembered his Dad having some stuff like this years ago, always stashed away in that big green duffel bag of his, but there'd been other telltale items too, like silver bullets and holy water and talismans and certain protective herbs. Definitely never chloroform.

It was like a light clicked on in his brain when realization hit, and suddenly the purpose of that empty suitcase became all too clear.

'_Perfect way to sneak your dead body out of this room,'_ he thought, and had to swallow again as panic flushed through him, making his hands hot and his head swim. Or maybe it was the champagne that was responsible for that.

_Fuck! The champagne!_

Dean knew he needed to get out of here now. How long had the John been gone? Five minutes? Maybe close to ten? God, he'd be coming back any second! And if he caught Dean staring at his bag of tricks he'd likely just skip the foreplay and get right to the murder.

Right. Time to get the fuck out of dodge.

He grabbed his sneakers in one hand and was already yanking the door open with the other, not bothering with putting them on. He'd have time for that in the elevator. On silent feet he made his way down the hall, nearly crashing into a couple of kids in towels on their way back from the pool, when he heard the distinctive 'Ding!' of the elevator announcing its arrival on their floor. The kids were just sliding their keycard into the swipe pad on the door to their room, clicking the door open and sauntering inside in a fit of giggles when Dean went for broke and dashed in after them, pushing the door shut behind him and leaning against it with his heart hammering in his chest.

"Hey what're you –" the little boy protested, but froze when he saw the unmistakable look of terror in Dean's eyes.

"Sh! Shhh!" Dean begged quietly, his back still pressed firmly against the door, his ear straining to hear any signs of distress in the hallway beyond. He could hear the scuffing of shoes on the floor as the person from the elevator passed the room he was hiding in, quick steps, purposeful. Then the more faint click of a keycard being accepted.

Dean was sure his heart was going to explode. He was practically panting for breath, his head filling with cotton as dizziness washed over him. _Fucking champagne..._

Then he heard the unmistakable sound of a door slamming, and those same shoes running left past the door, pausing at the end of the hall, and then backtracking to go right. An angry hiss followed by the tiny beeps of a cell phone.

"Yes hello, I would like to report a theft," he heard the John saying into his phone. "A young boy, approximately fourteen, fifteen years of age. Blonde hair... yes, he must have snuck into my room while I was out. I just saw him sneaking into the elevator, but I didn't think... My laptop. Yes, please, stop him from leaving, there are important things on that computer that I need for a presentation at the luncheon tomorrow." The John paused to listen to whatever the hotel clerk was saying on the other end. "Yes. When you find him please notify me immediately."

Dean's nostrils flared as he breathed deep through his nose, trying desperately to think through the fog and panic. He was so well and truly screwed. Now he couldn't get out of here without being caught – the John had made sure of that. Dean wasn't sure what would happen when he was caught, but he was certain that the John would have some kind of plan that would involve 'dealing with the matter privately' and that ended up with Dean stuffed dead into that suitcase. He'd seen the guy's face and had seen his deadly bag of tricks. If this whack-job had killed anyone else, Dean could identify him.

"Fuck!" Dean hissed quietly, feeling himself slipping down the door as his knees gave out.

The little girl in wet blonde pigtails gasped with wide eyes.

"You said a bad word!" she whispered in awe.

"Who are you hiding from?" the little boy asked shrewdly.

Dean blinked at the two frightened kids, his vision tunneling as blackness encroached around the edges and enveloped him.

"Bad man..." he panted, feeling himself falling under the influence of the champagne, which had obviously been drugged. "Bad... bad man."

Everything after that was lost to the dark.

888

Sam didn't know what to think of the strange boy with no shoes who'd barged into their room, but one thing was certain: this boy was terrified. He'd seen in horror movies how when people got really scared their eyes would get bright and wide, and they'd breathe real fast and their hands would shake. The blonde teenager was doing that now, blinking like he was trying to stay awake and slipping down the door. It reminded him of the time that his cousin Kelly got drunk and ended up throwing in grandma's tulips.

"Bad... bad man..." the boy whispered and then slumped over.

Well this wasn't good.

"Uh-oh..." Suzie intoned, her big blue eyes wide. "Sam?"

Sam shuffled uncomfortably from one foot to the other. He didn't know what to do, and the way the boy suddenly went still made him awfully nervous. He inched his way closer to the door and the slumped figure on the floor, afraid to come too close in case he was dead. Had the bad man killed him and he ran in here to get help but was too late and died? Or maybe it was just like in the movies, and the bad man _had_ killed him, only he'd come here first before he died and had led the bad man straight to Sam and Suzie?

"Sam, I'm scared!" Suzie whined, also jumping from one foot to the other and looking very much like she had to pee.

"It's okay, Suzie," Sam reassured her, plucking up the courage to do _something_ because his little sister was scared and it was time to man up and be the big brother. He was going to be ten in a week, after all.

Crouching at the unconscious-hopefully-not-dead boy's side, Sam leaned forward and noticed the steady rising and falling of the boy's chest. Definitely breathing, which meant definitely not dead. So far so good. He gave the boy a shake to try to wake him up, but that just caused him to slip further down onto the floor. He could hear somebody pacing the hallway outside their door, a little further down the hall, and his heart stopped. It must be the man this boy was talking about.

"Help me move him," Sam whispered to his sister, waving a hand for her to come on over and grab a leg. She was hesitant at first but took heart when she saw the brave, confident look on her big brother's face.

"Okay, Sam," she said, proving she could be brave too.

They each grabbed one of the boy's jean-clad legs and started dragging him across the floor, away from the door. His head banged on the ground when his torso flopped to the ground but he didn't cry out or wake up so Sam figured he was probably okay. His arms were kind of dragging like dead weights at his sides, and the ride across the carpet made his shirt bunch up his back. He'd probably have carpet burn there when he woke up.

"In the bathroom," Sam instructed as he continued to drag the unconscious boy through their room. "Mom and Dad's bathroom – it's bigger."

So they dragged him through the door to their parents' adjoining room, past their bed and into the bathroom, where they deposited him with an unceremonious thunk of two dead legs plunking to the ground.

"What's wrong with him?" Suzie asked, still wide-eyed.

Sam shook his head.

"I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe he's drunk?"

"Or maybe he got scared to death?" Suzie suggested. "Cos of the bad man?"

His little sister looked so terrified, and he could see she was shaking. He wished their mom or dad were here. They'd know what to do.

"There's no bad man," Sam reassured her instead.

"But he said..."

"I think he was sleepwalking," Sam lied. "He was probably in the middle of a dream and he sleepwalked right in here."

He didn't believe it, but it seemed to satisfy her. She nodded solemnly, looking relieved but pensive. He'd done his job, had managed to reassure his little sister that the boogie man wasn't about to come in and murder them, so he could at least breathe easy on that score.

But everything about this situation had Sam Wesley's hair standing straight on end. This boy hadn't been sleepwalking: he was sure of that. There had been a look of pure terror in his eyes, just like in those horror movies Sam had watched at Jason's house. And there was a man, or something, pacing the halls looking for him. Maybe it was the kid's father, and the father hit him or something. It looked like there was a faint, fading bruise on the boy's cheekbone, just the slightest discolouring of yellow next to a light smattering of freckles on his pale cheeks.

Well whoever that man was, Sam wasn't going to let him find them. This boy was scared and needed their help, and if it was the last thing he did he was going to help him. Something deep in his gut told him that this was what he was supposed to be doing – that this boy needed him now or something truly terrible was going to happen. And that voice inside his head that had told him so many times that something was out there, someone who needed him was out there waiting, it was screaming at him now that this was it.

Whatever was wrong with him, he didn't wake up. Suzie returned to her and Sam's room to watch TV, leaving Sam alone with their new charge to wait out the arrival of their parents. When the door finally clicked open, Sam was relieved to find that it was their Dad who had arrived first. Somehow he thought maybe Dad would understand better than their Mom.

"Sorry kids – your mom's running late," he called from the doorway, dropping his briefcase on the table and casting a puzzled look at the grubby size 8 men's sneakers that were very obviously not Sam's or Suzie's.

"Hey guys? You got company or something?" he called.

Sam snuck away from the bathroom and hurried to meet his father in the main room, where he was hurriedly unloading his business things onto the big oak desk.

"Um, Dad?"

"Yeah, Sport?"

Sam chewed his lip with worry.

"There's something I need to show you, but you have to promise you won't freak out!" he said.

He watched his Dad roll his eyes dramatically before allowing himself to be dragged by an arm through the bedroom to the bathroom. He stopped dead in his tracks when he noticed the sprawled, unconscious form of a teenaged boy lying on the bathroom floor.

"Wh—?"

"I think he's in trouble!" Sam blurted out. "He said he was running away from a bad man. And then he just kinda... passed out. Dad, we have to help him!"

It was all said in a rush, with the desperation and urgency that only a ten year-old with puppy dog eyes can truly convey.

Dad ran a hand along his mouth and dragged his skin until his eyes looked like a zombie and then sighed loud and heavy.

"For goodness sake, Sam!" he growled tiredly, loosening his tie. "There was a theft in the hotel today. A laptop stolen from someone's room. I heard the concierge talking about it earlier. He said it was a blonde teenaged boy."

And then he flung his hand in the direction of the kid on the floor, a clear indication that he had added two and two and arrived at four.

"But..." Sam didn't want to believe it. The boy had looked so scared, so lost, so in need of help. "But where's the laptop?"

"What?"

"Where's the laptop?" Sam pressed. "If he stole a laptop and then hid in here, where is it? And why'd he pass out?"

"I don't know, stress?" Dad snapped, then ran a hand down his face again. "Maybe he stashed it somewhere – I don't know!"

"Dad, I don't think so..."

"What in the world were you thinking, Sam?" Dad demanded, and he looked so disappointed now it made Sam's guts twist a bit inside. "Bringing this kid in here when you're alone with your sister? Anything could have happened! He could have robbed us, or he could have hurt you!"

"Shh, Dad, be quiet!" Sam hissed, his instincts kicking in again. "He'll hear you!"

Dad looked incredulous.

"He's about three sheets to the wind, if you ask me, son! He's not likely to hear anything."

"Not him!" Sam corrected quietly, then paused. "The bad man!"

Dad sighed and crouched down so that he could look Sam in the eye.

"Son," he said, and he looked sad now, like he didn't want to hurt Sam's feelings. "I know you want to help, and that you wouldn't ever leave someone you thought was in trouble. But this boy? He was lying to you. He stole from someone in the hotel and then hid in here so that he wouldn't get caught. Maybe he's drunk or on drugs and didn't realize what he was doing – maybe he didn't _mean_ to steal... But he broke the law, son."

And he pulled his cell phone off its holster on his belt and started to dial.

"What are you doing?" Sam demanded, panicked.

"Calling the concierge. Letting them know we've found their thief."

"NO!" Sam shouted, slapping the phone from his father's hand.

"Sam..." Dad's I-don't-have-time-for-this voice.

"I know he's not lying!" Sam insisted, his bottom lip jutting out. "I know it! He was scared, Dad. Real scared. And not like 'I'm gonna get in trouble' scared, but 'I just got chased by a guy with a knife' scared. If you call the concierge something real bad's gonna happen to him. I just know it."

"Sam..."

"Can you at least just wait until he wakes up?" he begged. "Please, Dad? Just wait until he wakes up and look at his eyes."

Dad breathed deep and let out an explosive breath. When he did reply it was slowly, reluctantly.

"Okay, son," he said. "We'll give this kid a chance to explain himself. But if he doesn't wake up before your mother gets back, I can't make any promises for her..."

888

When Mom arrived an hour later, the strange, young possibly-thief was still out cold and hadn't so much as flinched in his sleep. It had taken everything Sam had in him, the full arsenal of dimples, puppy dog eyes, and inevitably a few tears added for good measure, to convince her to hold off on calling the police. Because, as she said, "If someone is trying to hurt this boy we need to alert the proper authorities!" She wasn't convinced that he was really in danger, and made it clear that she sided with Dad in thinking that he'd stolen the laptop, stashed it somewhere, and then made a mad dash into the room with the two unsuspecting kids to avoid detection.

The prolonged unconsciousness, though, was baffling to everyone. When three hours passed without any signs of movement save for the steady breathing, Mom threatened to call an ambulance.

"Maybe he needs a doctor!" she said worriedly, but Sam suspected it was more than that.

He'd watched his mother's reaction when she first got back to the hotel and when she took a good, long, hard look at the kid something in her had woken up. She blanched. She'd looked afraid, then, and had tried to insist that they let someone else – someone who was decidedly not _them_ – deal with him. Sam had had to enlist Suzie's help to win his mother over to his way of thinking. At least for the time being.

When the boy did wake up, it was nothing like in the movies. First of all, he didn't spring awake and say, "Where am I? What have you done with me?" or anything like that. In fact, he didn't spring up at all. His leg twitched, and then he groaned, and rolled feebly on the floor, trying to lever himself over onto his side. Dad rushed over to help him up, which was the wrong move.

The boy jerked back and hit his head on the base of the toilet, his arms flailing as he muttered, "Donnn toushhh'mm.." Then he groaned and rolled onto his stomach and tried to crawl away, but it looked like he was having a hard time holding himself up or even gathering enough strength to move.

"Hey-hey, take it easy," Dad whispered to him, but Sam thought maybe the kid couldn't hear him, or maybe he couldn't quite see him, because he rolled around onto his back and tried to crab crawl away, squinting the whole time with bleary eyes and waving one hand in front of him to ward off evil or to prevent what he thought was an oncoming attack.

"Heeess gonnn kill'mm," the boy said, and that terrified look was back.

"Who's going to kill you?" Dad pressed. "Your father? Is your father here in the hotel? Are you here alone?"

The boy shook his head, backing away until his shoulder hit the bathtub and he could go no further.

"Johnnn," he said. Then his eyelids fluttered and he was out cold again.

888

"We need to talk," Jane said quietly, wanting to snag a moment alone with her husband. "Sam, go wait out in the other room with your sister."

"But Mom..."

"Do as your mother says, Samuel," Peter ordered sternly. "We've allowed you to call the shots long enough. Your mother and I need to talk. Now go."

Jane watched with a roiling gut as her son stormed away to the adjoining room that he shared with his sister.

"Have you checked him for any ID?" she asked without preamble. "Do you know who he is?"

Peter shook his head no. "Sam said he just snuck in behind them when they came back from the pool. No wallet or ID. No jacket even. Just a pair of sneakers he was carrying."

She cleared her throat before continuing. "Did he give a name before he passed out?"

Again a negative shake of the head was all the reply she got.

"Jane... he looks like..."

"I know who he looks like!" she snapped.

Yes, she knew who he looked like, though the chances of him miraculously showing up here, in their hotel room, in New York City, were astronomically low. It simply couldn't be him. She had to believe it couldn't be him.

There was a monster inside her, an ugly beast with long, blood-sucking tentacles that slithered up her spine and leeched at her very soul, tearing her apart from within at moments just like this one. Guilt. It ate at her almost every day over the decisions she'd made, the lives she'd influenced (or failed to). And nothing ate at her worse than thinking about poor Dean Winchester.

His eyes haunted her, even after five years' separation, with the hefty weight of her decision to take Sam and not Dean. They could have taken them both together, though it had never been a part of their original plan. But the trial weekend they'd run with the children had been horrible. The older brother was clearly disturbed: he'd observed some of the strangest and clearly satanic rituals of salt-laying and talisman-checking she'd ever seen; he'd refused to sleep in a room separate from his little brother, claiming that the things in the dark would get him and take him away; he'd alluded to being proficient with firearms and combat styles and had threatened to 'kick her ass' if she did anything to upset his little brother. But it was the loss in his big green eyes, the depthless bewilderment and abandonment that ran full fathoms deep, that had chilled her to the bone. A child was not supposed to have that look in his eyes. World-weary, tired, lost.

And with Sam being only four and Suzie just toddling around at two, there was potential there for the two of them to bond and become family. But Dean...? He was nine years old and simply too damaged. His father's delusions had taken hold of him. So they'd had to return him to the foster home, had separated the boys so that they could keep little Sammy Winchester.

The hatred in those hazel green eyes when they'd dropped him off without his brother had plagued her dreams every night for the last five years running.

So the likelihood of her ever forgetting his face was low in the negatives. The hair was the first give-away: sandy blonde and straight, though short cropped. She would recognize the straight slope of that pert nose anywhere. His full bee-stung lips and sweet mouth – the one that had curled into a vicious sneer and boldly threatened to kill her for taking his brother away – were forever etched on her memory. His delicate, high cheekbones and cleft-chin, handsomer now that manhood was settling upon him, were as recognizable to her now as they were five years ago. Dean Winchester had been a beautiful child – pretty for a boy – with a sweet, angelic face that completely masked the dark fire within.

Jane Wesley had no doubt that she was looking at Dean Winchester now.

"Jane, what the heck would he be doing here?" Peter asked in bewilderment. "I mean... It can't be him."

She really didn't have an answer to that question, or at least, not one that she wanted to say aloud. It was simply too horrifying to even contemplate.

"By the state of his sneakers and clothes, I'd say the boy's just shy of homeless," Peter went on. "There's no way he could possibly be a guest here, or even know a guest here. How did he even get in?"

Jane didn't want to say it aloud. She really didn't. As soon as she'd heard the kid say the name of his supposed attacker her blood had run cold with the implication.

"Unless..." Peter was putting the pieces together slowly, it appeared. "Oh God! When he said 'John,' do you think he meant, like... _a_ John?"

Jane spun and ran out of the bathroom on shaky legs. It couldn't be that. It just couldn't. Anything but that. Of all the possible scenarios for every terrible situation she'd ever imagined that child could have found himself in after she abandoned him to his fate without his brother, this was the absolute _worst_. If that poor child had been forced to sell his body on the streets because she'd refused to give him a home she would never forgive herself. Never.

"Jane, talk to me," her husband's voice called out from behind her. "Honey, don't shut me out now."

"What if he...?" She turned to her husband for comfort, her lip trembling with unshed tears. "God, Pete... Do you think he's been...?" She couldn't say it, losing herself to sobs as her husband's arms engulfed her.

"The Lord never gives us anything we can't handle," he reminded her.

"But that boy," she sobbed. "If that's really him... and if he's been... and it's all my fault!"

"Hush now," he gently chided her. "None of this is your fault. There are two of us in this marriage: we made the decision together."

"But you wanted to give it a chance," she corrected him through her sobs. "I convinced you that it would be better to make the separation quick, instead of drawing it out. It was _me_... because I wanted things to be easier for Suzie!"

"And I wouldn't have agreed with you if I didn't _agree_ with you," he reminded her, so gently and full of understanding that she felt a huge rush of gratitude to God for giving her such a wonderful husband. "Anyway," he said. "It might not be him."

But they both knew that was a lie.

888

Dean knew he was in trouble when he came to on a strange bathroom floor, head pounding, mind in a complete fog, and with no recollection of how he'd gotten there. It was what he imagined being roofied felt like.

He tried to piece together the details of the last few hours, but nothing was coming to him. He remembered Vinnie dropping him off at the swanky hotel – probably where he was right now, given the size and grandeur of the bathroom, even from his low vantage point on the floor – and he'd been watching TV in that opulent room with the John, _John_. Then things started to get a little fuzzy.

He pried himself off the floor, thinking he probably had a hell of a lot of apologizing to do for ending up shitfaced and passed out on the guy's hotel room floor, but moving turned out to be a very bad idea. His skull was throbbing to a steady, killer beat and all the blood rushed from his face when he attempted to sit up. He went from cold to hot in about a nanosecond, and was scrambling for the toilet to hork his guts out before he could say Bob's-your-uncle. Vinnie was so going to kick his ass. The John had probably already called him demanding his fucking money back.

The small dimpled face crowned by a shaggy mop of soft brown hair as it peeked around the door frame was a surprise, bringing with it flashes of running, and being really scared, and seeing two kids and forcing his way behind them into their room, shutting himself inside with them. Was he running away from the John?

Memory lanced through his brain like the lightening strikes of a spear: the suitcase of torture, the champagne, the John calling the hotel about an invented theft to prevent Dean's escape... The pain and the fear combined had him doubling over the toilet again with renewed heaving.

"Fucking champagne," he muttered.

Oh God he just wanted to die, but not in the cut-into-little-bits-after-being-tortured-by-a-serial-killer sense. More in the I'm-hung-over-and-I-wasn't-even-drunk sense. Being roofied sucked hairy ass.

"Are you okay?" the little boy asked.

Dean didn't look up but did his best to give the kid a half-hearted o-k with trembling fingers.

"Just peachy," he muttered, clinging to the cold porcelain bowl like it was a thing to be worshipped.

He could hear the sound of movement beyond the room and watched in growing trepidation as a man and woman flanked the little boy, each placing a protective hand on his shoulders. It was an effort in strength and concentration to look at them, and even so they were a little blurry with the after-effects of the drug. They wavered in and out of his vision like figures in one of those fun house mirrors (not that he'd ever been in a fun house, but he'd seen them on TV and got the general idea).

"Son," the man called to him gently. "Can you tell me what happened?"

Well that was the million-dollar question, wasn't it? _Could_ Dean tell them what happened? He would have to tell them something, because it wasn't normal to force your way into strange peoples' hotel rooms and then pass out in their bathroom. He also figured they'd probably heard of the fabricated theft by now and had probably pegged him for the perp. He looked like the shifty kind of kid who'd steal, though how they could rationalize him being able to navigate a ritzy place like this without being caught and thrown out on his ass required imaginative leaps and bounds.

He could try telling them the truth, but that would involve telling them the truth – saying out loud to normal, decent folk that he was a dirty little whore who'd bit off more than he could chew by shacking up with a sicko who wanted to slice and dice him. And maybe it was proof that his pride wasn't as securely locked away as he liked to think it was, but admitting out loud that he was a rent boy, saying it to these people and seeing the shocked and disgusted looks on their faces, was something he wasn't prepared to do. Maybe he was in denial a little bit.

Of course, telling the truth would also involve the police, and that was a can of worms Dean just wasn't at all prepared to open up. The police were bad news: they'd run his prints, see his record of theft and under-aged prostitution; they'd see his father was serial killer John Winchester. And then they'd likely laugh in his face and drag him kicking and screaming back to the John's motel room to make it up to the poor bastard. That or they'd throw him in Juvie.

None of these options was particularly appealing.

So Dean Winchester did what Dean Winchester does best. He lied.

"I stole a laptop," he said without hesitation. "The guy caught me on my way out and I freaked. Tossed it in the trashcan of a service cart down the hall and then snuck in here when I heard the guy get off the elevator."

He shrugged, offering no apologies. He was hoping that his attempt at candor and 'honesty' would score him some sympathy points and that they'd maybe even let him walk out of here without telling anyone. If he took the stairwell he could probably sneak out through the underground parking lot.

"Sorry about all this," he added, indicating the bathroom in general. "I took a hit earlier and it, uh... Kind of fucked me up, I guess."

It was easier to lie about being a junkie than tell the truth about being a whore.

To their credit, the parents tried their best not to look disgusted, hid their revulsion as best they could as they shielded their son from the filth on their bathroom floor. Dean's heart felt a little twinge when the wife pushed the boy behind her legs and shooed him out into the main bedroom.

"Go back and wait with your sister," she instructed sternly, turning her gaze back to Dean and looking at him warily.

"He's lying!" the little boy cried, not budging an inch. "He's lying, Dad! He was running from the bad man!"

Something about the kid's face caught Dean's attention. Now that the effects of the drug were wearing off and consciousness was bringing clarity to his head and his vision, he could see his face better. Those dimples... and the chin... and those eyes, tilted like a cat's. He'd watched those eyes grow heavy with sleep every night for four years, he'd know them anywhere.

"Sammy?"

All thoughts about empty suitcases as would-be tombs and serial killers and cops and laptops flew from his mind like water through a sieve. Dean thought maybe he was dreaming, or maybe he'd been more than roofied. Maybe he was high on something. Because after years of searching and hoping and praying and _dreaming_, he couldn't possibly be looking at his little brother.

The little boy's eyes grew wide – Sammy's eyes, hazel-brown just like he remembered – and he tilted his head to the side in curiosity, as if daring himself to remember the face that had dared to remember him.

"Go wait with your sister!" the mother ordered in a strained voice.

Dean forced himself to look away from his little brother in order to survey the parents, who up until this moment he hadn't paid any attention to. Now that he could really get a good look at them, it hit him like a 2x4 to the chest that he'd seen them before. He remembered the man's pudgy face, his point-dexter glasses and wavy brown hair on a non-pudgy body. And the woman with her shoulder-length mousy brown hair and scrutinizing gray eyes, conservative school-marm dress... These were the people who'd taken Sam!

In a flash Dean was scrambling to get to his feet, all fears of consequences to himself be damned in his desperate need to get to his brother.

"Sammy!" he called, and his heart lifted when the kid pulled away from his mother's grip and made the smallest move to inch his way closer. There was a question in his eyes, but it was hopeful, just bordering on recognition. "It's me, Dean!" Dean cried, hoping that would be enough to trigger some kind of memory.

Sam had been young when they were separated, only four and a half years old. It would have been easy, natural, for him to forget. The Wesleys had probably encouraged him to forget to make the integration to his new family easier. But Dean still hoped that there would be some small part of his brother that remembered him. Sammy had been Dean's whole world.

"Dean," Sam said thoughtfully, trying the name on for size. The parents looked like they wanted to snatch him back but Dean could see they resisted the urge. "I think you're my brother," he said at last, and his face melted into a smile that showed off his dimples that were so much like Dad's Dean felt his throat constricting painfully as he blinked back tears.

"Yeah," Dean confirmed in a whisper, his lip betraying him with a wobble as his eyes welled up. He'd dreamed about this moment for so fucking long. "Yeah, I'm your brother."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Notes:**

Thank you guys so much for your kind reviews! I imagine it's almost hard to like a story like this because it's so... well... disturbing in parts. But in the end it's supposed to be about brotherly love and family. I thought my muse was done with torturing Dean, but apparently she's a really sick mofo. But don't worry -- the scene coming up is more like a warning. Therefore...

WARNING: This chapter contains torture and rape of a minor.

* * *

Chapter 4

The room fell into uncomfortable silence for a full sixty second count, and then Sam did what felt natural: he embraced his brother in a much-needed hug. The blonde teen seemed taken aback, momentarily stunned at first, but then leaned into the embrace and hugged back, squeezing fiercely as if he feared the figure in his arms was merely a specter that would dissolve and disappear if he closed his eyes. He breathed deep, savouring the chlorine scent on his baby brother's skin, the baby brother who was real flesh and bone, a dream come true borne in the midst of a living nightmare.

"I can't believe you're really here," Dean whispered into his hair as he clung with all the desperation of a drowning man. "You're really here..."

Sam didn't reply, but merely squeezed harder as well, returning the hug with a deep intense need to convey something – he wasn't sure what – that would let this stranger who wasn't a stranger know that this was right, that this was just as it should be. Sam might not know his brother, but he knew intuitively what he needed. He knew that his brother needed him, right now. His brother needed him so badly he was shaking.

"Dean?" he asked tentatively, pulling away from the embrace to look into his big brother's eyes. And they were big and green, with long full lashes and Sam smiled because there was another piece of the puzzle falling into place. He remembered those eyes.

"I'm okay, Sammy," Dean said with a hitching breath. His eyes were kind of red and watery and Sam spotted a renegade tear slipping off of his chin even though he'd already tried to wipe it away. He sniffed and seemed to gather himself up. "How about you? Are you okay? They treatin' you okay?"

He patted his baby brother's arms and back and scrutinized him like a mother-hen taking count of her eggs.

Sam nodded. He wasn't really sure what he should be saying, and the way his brother was looking at him like he was the most wonderful, precious thing in the whole world, he figured he should be saying something. Maybe he could ask questions instead.

"Are you visiting New York with your family?" he asked. "Is that why you're staying in the hotel? Like us?"

Dean sighed wearily.

"No, Sammy. I live in Queens. I'm just... uh, visiting someone."

Sam didn't miss the way Dean's eyes flicked towards his Mom and Dad before flicking back to him. He was lying.

"Was it the person who was chasing you?" Sam asked. "The bad man?"

Dean looked kind of scared when Sam mentioned the man, but he covered it up quickly, licking his lips nervously and then smiling a shy smile that was almost convincing. It would have been convincing but for the horrible nagging feeling in Sam's gut.

"Nah," Dean said, relaxed and self-assured. "Think I bonked myself on the head pretty hard earlier and convinced myself that the boogie man was after me or something. There's no bad man, Sammy. You're safe."

Sam sighed, trying not to be annoyed. He understood that he'd been four the last time his big brother had seen him, but he wasn't four now. Dean was talking to him as if he expected him to still be wearing diapers or something.

"I'm not scared for _me_, Dean," Sam chided.

Dean just grinned, sloppy and silly and so obviously distracted, clearly not paying attention to Sam's concerns about him. He patted Sam's head affectionately, running his fingers through the shaggy mop and brushing a stray lock out of Sam's eyes.

"You're gettin' tall, little man," he said affectionately. "God you were like, freakin' tiny the last time I saw you."

Sam smiled at the warmth and love in his brother's eyes, which were so full of hope and relief and genuine gladness that it was breathtaking, overwhelming, even for a ten year-old.

"Dean," Mrs. Wesley spoke up tentatively. "Can you tell us what you're doing here?"

Dean almost seemed startled by her voice, as though he'd forgotten there was anyone else in the room but his brother.

"Visiting a friend who works here cleaning rooms," he lied seamlessly.

"I see," she said somberly.

"And the man?" Mr. Wesley prompted.

"What man?" He was blonde. Playing dumb was so easy, especially if he blinked slowly and squinted in confusion.

"The man you told my son was after you," Mr. Wesley said patiently.

Dean feigned ignorance.

"You said he was going to kill you."

"Really?" Looking into the distance and pursing his lips as if trying to dig through his memory. "I said that?" Laying it on thick. "Wow. I must have been really out of it." And he rolled his eyes in a wide loop in his head, imitating craziness or whacked-out trippiness.

"So your family lives in Queens, Dean?" Mrs. Wesley pressed. The boy turned cold eyes on her, his jaw flexing before he replied.

"All the family I have in the world is in this room, _Mrs. Wesley_." He said her name as if it were a dirty thing scuffed from underneath his boots, the corner of his pert mouth turning up into a sneer.

"Then how do you live?" Sam asked, baffled. Whenever he dreamed about the brother he always knew he had, he dreamed of him living with a family like his, with a mother and father to love him and with a younger sister to drive him nuts. He'd always pictured him with people around him who loved him, people who Sam could be jealous of for having his brother around when he didn't, for loving his brother when he was _Sam's_ brother. It made him feel cold inside to think that maybe his brother didn't have a family at all. How could he not have a family like the Wesleys? Who took care of him then?

"Take it easy, Sammy," Dean replied, patting his shoulder to reassure him. "I live with a friend. It's cool."

"Is his name John?" Mr. Wesley asked delicately.

"No," Dean snapped. "His name's Vinnie. Are we done with the twenty questions? I haven't seen my brother in five fuckin' years and I'd kind of like to share a moment with him. If that's okay with you."

Dean couldn't help being smug at the matching expressions of shock on the Wesleys' faces. Served them right for taking his brother away from him, the yuppie assholes. The truth was he was desperate to spend this time with Sammy, drinking up every second like precious drops of water in the desert. How long would they let him loiter in their room, he wondered? An hour, maybe two? Sooner or later they'd be sending him on his way, and the very idea of walking out that door and away from Sam was just unfathomable.

He was this close to begging them to take him with them, back to wherever it was they came from. Not that he gave half a rat's ass about the Wesleys – they could go fuck themselves for all he cared – but they were Sam's family now and being near Sam meant being near them. It wasn't as if he could say, "Great! Thanks for bringing my brother back to me. You can go now!" (much as he'd like to). Even if they were crazy enough to let him keep Sam, which they weren't, he'd have nowhere to take the kid. Dean himself didn't really have a proper place to call his own, certainly nowhere safe enough to take Sam. And he wouldn't want Sam anywhere near his unwholesome life. The kid was clean, pure, innocent. He didn't belong anywhere near the filth that Dean had touched, had crawled around in and made a life of.

So that left begging to be taken with them. Because now that he had Sam within his sights, he couldn't let him go. He couldn't. When this trip for the Wesleys was over, they'd be checking out of this glitzy hotel and would be returning back to the life they came from. They'd be taking Sam away and Dean would probably never find him again. Deep down Dean knew he probably wouldn't live long enough to find Sammy again.

"Can he come with us?" Sam suddenly asked, seeming to read his brother's mind. "Since he doesn't have a family of his own, he can join ours!"

Ah yes. Sweet, simple, ten year-old child logic. Dean loved it.

"Sam..." Mr. Wesley said, his voice soft but weary, laced with regret.

Big, fat, resounding no, then.

"Dean's got a life here," the man went on to explain. "School and friends... You wouldn't want to take him away from all that, would you?"

_Shows how much you know_, Dean thought bitterly. _School and friends? I wish!_ Turns out runaway kids who are nabbed off the streets and forced into prostitution at age eleven don't really get an education. They're the ones who fall through the cracks and get left behind to drown in their own destitution. Their misery is the tar pit that drags them under, allowing no hope of escape.

But Sam was like a dog with a bone. He nodded vigorously, so keen on his idea to adopt his big brother into this Brady clan that he wasn't willing to let it go so easily.

"He'll make new friends," Sam said simply, shrugging.

"Sam..."

"You know what, don't do me any favours," Dean said, his voice laced with bitterness. Hearing any more of the man's protests might just kill what little traces of pride Dean had left. Though why Dean should be worrying about his pride now, when he was so desperate to be with his brother it took everything in him not to cry like a freakin' girl, was beyond him. He figured he must be channeling his inner John Winchester. _Oh well_, Dean thought. _At least I come by it honestly_.

"Well why don't you at least stay the night," Mrs. Wesley suggested as a peace offering. "Give you boys a chance to catch up."

"Okay." Dean's reply was instant, immediate, too eager to be anything less than desperate. But he'd take what he could get.

One night with Sammy, to bond with him and get to know him again, to find out what kinds of things the little runt liked to do. Maybe it would be enough. _Or maybe I'll just follow them back to wherever they're going and set up shop there instead_, he thought. Because his options in New York were looking grim. Going back to Vinnie's at this point would surely be suicide. He'd officially screwed his new pimp-daddy over by bailing on the weekend trick and leaving Vinnie high and dry. If he dared show his face in that apartment again Vinnie wouldn't bother showing restraint – he'd kill Dean. Might feel like shit for it afterwards, but Dean doubted it. And there was also the potential psycho-killer John to worry about. Now it was possible the guy just had his weird sexual quirks and maybe Dean had overreacted in assuming that he was some kind of axe murderer. But again, Dean doubted it. His gut had told him to run _before_ he'd discovered the bag of lethal goodies, when he'd noticed the John pushing him to drink the champagne a little too insistently. And the roofied champagne was another pretty damning piece of evidence. What the hell was the point in drugging a kid who was guaranteed to be compliant because he'd already been bought and paid for? Unless, of course, he had plans that were more sinister.

So basically Dean was screwed. If he'd called Vinnie to tell him what's what about the John as soon as he'd made his escape there might have been hope for him. But now that was shot all to hell. And honestly, Dean suspected now might be the time to cut his losses and break free of the surly bastard anyway. His mood swings were getting worse and his outbursts disturbingly more violent and traumatic. If Dean wasn't careful he'd end up getting on the wrong side of him and end up with his brains bashed in – which is what almost happened less than two weeks ago.

So one night with Sammy and then... Dean guessed he'd just cross that bridge when he came to it (or maybe burn it down).

888

The Winchester boys were left entirely to their own devices with the spacious double room to themselves for the night. Suzie would be sleeping with the parents so that Sam and Dean could have some privacy. Dean had to grudgingly admit that the Wesleys weren't entirely possessed by Satan. Maybe only partially.

Sammy was a real talker, which was great, because Dean didn't really have much to share. The kid was into all sorts of things: soccer, video games, movies, school, drama club, Tae Kwon Do. He talked about his best friend Jason and Jason's older sister Shelly (on whom Dean suspected his little brother had a major crush), and about the schoolyard bullies and about his favourite teacher. He talked about his little sister and how much she bugged the crap out of him, even though he really loved her most of the time, and about their house and their pool and how hot it gets in Phoenix, and had Dean ever been to Phoenix? And about Christmas at his grandparents' house and all the cousins and second cousins who came to the reunions. Dean listened in rapt attention, eating up every word with wide, bright eyes. He could listen to his little brother talk forever.

When they got hungry they ordered room service and watched a movie on the big screen TV. Dean wasn't really paying attention, opting instead to watch his little brother, relishing in the way his cheeks dimpled when he laughed or his eyes lit up when the plot in the story twisted in a direction he hadn't expected. Now that he was getting older Dean could see the similarities between Sam and their Dad. They both had the same dark eyes, though Sammy's were more hazel and would probably turn greener when he got older like Dean's had. And Sammy's hair was lighter too, not black like Dad's. Still, there was something about the intensity of their gazes that was so strikingly similar, the brightness of their smiles. Dad wasn't big on smiling, but when he did he could light up a room. Dean wondered if his Dad ever had reason to smile these days, being in jail and all. Probably not.

Inevitably the conversation turned to their family. Sam wanted to know where they came from, what had happened to their parents, and how Dean had ended up in New York. It was a difficult string of questions to answer because Dean didn't want to upset him. They only had the one night together – would it really be worth it to tell him that their father was in jail, on death row, for killing six people? Since he couldn't very well tell the kid that those people were in fact werewolves who had reverted to their human forms when Dad shot them through the heart, it was probably not the best idea to go with the truth.

He _did_ tell Sam about the fire in Lawrence, omitting the detail that their mother had died on the ceiling at the hands of some supernatural sonofabitch. He opted for a partial lie regarding their Dad, claiming that John was in jail for manslaughter – killed a rapist he caught in the act. Of course, then he'd had to explain what a rapist was, to his extreme mortification and horror. And as for himself? Well he'd just flat out lied.

"I lived a few years with a family in Connecticut," he said. "They were real great. We'd take trips to Yew York every Christmas and go skating in Central Park." His bullshitting skills were astounding. "That's how I met Vinnie. Stayed on with him to be like an apprentice."

"What does he do?"

"He's an electrician." In another life Dean would have been on the stage, or maybe been a politician.

"So you don't wanna go to college?" Sam queried.

Dean actually snorted a laugh.

"Hell no!" He'd never really liked school so it wasn't a lie. "I'm the handsome Winchester. Looks like you got all the book smarts, Sammy." He grinned and ruffled his little brother's shaggy hair.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" Sam asked, and he looked so young and sheepish and curious and cute that Dean had to fight not to laugh.

"Not right now, runt," he admitted. _Though I do live with a fat ugly pig who likes to fuck me sideways_, he thought bitterly. "Can't be tied down to one chick when there are so many to choose from..."

Sam rolled his eyes but was clearly in awe of his big brother, who he was certain lived a very exciting and glamorous life in New York City.

It felt so natural to be sitting here chatting with Sam, falling into teasing each other as if they hadn't been separated for the past five years. Dean got the feeling that Sam was itching to have his big brother in his life and suspected he'd even trade in the little sister if given the chance. Right now Dean thought he'd sell his soul to be able to be with his brother again, to have him in his life every day like real brothers were supposed to. The very idea of getting up in the morning and leaving him made him ache.

All too soon the time passed, evening bleeding into night. They both would have preferred to stay up all night so that they could squeeze every last second out of their time together, but eventually Sam succumbed to sleep as his head sagged and his eyes dropped. Dean settled his baby brother under the blankets and smoothed his hair away from his forehead, allowing himself a token big brother kiss on the forehead because there was no telling when they'd see each other again.

Then he took a seat on the opposite bed and watched the steady rising and falling of Sam's breathing, toppling over with exhaustion himself a little after three am.

888

Dean is being very cautious. He moves stealthily on socked feet, sneakers in hand, his head swiveling left to right to check that the coast is clear before stepping out of the elevator into the parking garage to make his escape. Everything appears to be clear. Heaving a sigh of relief, he drops his shoes onto the cold concrete and slips his feet inside.

He doesn't even see the dark figure looming up behind him, doesn't even hear his quiet steps, until a hand materializes from the gloom and presses a white cloth to his mouth and nose, pinning him in place until he goes limp.

Everything fades to darkness.

Flashes of light in fast-forward motion, new images and sounds stabbing at his brain. A room: large four-poster king sized bed with a nightstand, crystal fluted glass with partially-drunk champagne. Dean bound and gagged on the bed, his arms and legs spread wide in thick restraints tied to the four gleaming bedposts. His eyes are wild with fear and he's tugging frantically at the restraints as they cut into his pale flesh. Sam can hear him whimpering through the gag, can hear his frantic breaths, can feel his heartbeat pounding a furious rhythm in his chest.

Fast-forward flashes: the dark figure emerges from the bathroom, all slick skin and raw energy. Dean writhes frantically, sees the man approaching and screams something inaudible through the fabric in his mouth. His eyes are filled with hate and unshed tears that pool and clump his long lashes.

A knife. It makes short work of Dean's shirt, slicing through with quick flicks of the wrist, so sharp it glides like a pearl slithering down fresh-spun silk. Dean renews his frantic squirming when hands invade his flesh, caressing and teasing and making him shudder with fear and revulsion.

Sam wishes he could look away when the man climbs onto the bed and wrestles with his brother's jeans, pulling them down his slender hips with no resistance because his captive is bound, but he can't look away. He's trapped in this nightmare, forced to bear witness to the violation. The man turns, releases the clasp that ties Dean's left leg in place, forces the jeans and boxer shorts off the leg amidst frantic kicks to his face and torso, which he ignores as though made of stone. He refastens the leg when the jeans are free and repeats the process with the other leg.

Dean is crying when the man climbs on top of his now naked body, salty tears trailing from the corner of his eyes and pooling in his ears. His muffled screams fall on deaf ears as the man bucks, and Dean's head throws back into the pillow, his eyes rolling back in their sockets as a deep, soulful moan of agony tears from his throat. Sam trembles and can do nothing as the man moves inside of Dean, digging his fingers into Dean's hips to hold him in place.

Flash-forward: the man is holding something silver in his hands. At first Sam thinks it's a knife, but it looks too rounded, too solid, like a large, silver sausage. It would be funny except Dean's staring at it as though it is poison. The man is holding it over a lighter, warming it in the flame, making it orange and hot. He heats it until it glows like a light saber and then lowers it between Dean's legs. Dean screams himself hoarse but no one hears it, his wrists and ankles bloodied from the friction of his desperate and futile struggles.

The man laughs.

Flash-forward: Dean's eyes are glassy, lids heavy and drooping, sweat and tears glistening on his face, which is slack with exhaustion. He's trembling in shock, his head lolling listlessly from side to side, like a rudderless ship with no direction. The man is a shadow of death, his hand poised over Dean's head in final benediction. He removes the gag, running a gentle finger along Dean's tear-stained face.

"So beautiful..." the man whispers.

Dean is bruised from head to toe, large marks purpling his stark white skin like an abstract painting. His eyes are dark like a burglar's mask and his lips are white from being stretched in the gag. He's shaking uncontrollably, strange marks that look like burns and crisscrossing cuts mar the canvas of his milk white skin. The man unties his right hand slowly, ceremoniously, and then his left. He lifts Dean's torso from the bed and holds his trembling frame to his chest.

"You've been a good boy," the man coos, patting the back of Dean's head. "You screamed just how I knew you would."

And Dean's shaking and crying into the man's shoulder.

"Please don't... h-hurt me anymore," his brother begs brokenly. "Won't... r-run away... again."

"Shhhh... It's all over now."

And the man pulls away from the perverse embrace, sliding behind Dean on the bed as he hiccups through the last of his sobs. The blue paisley necktie glides around the ashen flesh and Dean gasps and flails, falling back against the bare chest of the monster as he tightens his grip and strangles him. The sounds of Dean's choking stab through Sam's brain, staccato gasps that abruptly end as Dean taps uselessly at his assailant's shoulder: the universal sign for 'Stop Now."

The room shifts: Sam can see Dean through the monster's eyes, watching as the broken figure against him stills its feeble attempts, goes limp and slack, limbs fall useless and lifeless on the bed. The light in Dean's green eyes goes dark, the last vestiges of tears shaking loose as the killer releases his hold. Slides out from beneath the mannequin that was once Dean Winchester. Eases the body back onto the bed.

Showers. Hums a tune Sam doesn't recognize. Packs his bags with the view of naked, abused flesh bereft of life in his peripheral vision.

Leaves.

Sam gasps awake screaming and sobbing for his brother.

888

The scream was so loud and shrill it pierced the night. Dean jerked awake, jack-knifing into a sitting position and stumbling onto the floor in a frantic scramble to get his bearings. He could just make out the trembling form of Sam in the next bed where he sat screaming Dean's name, sobbing helplessly and without fear of recrimination. His eyes were squeezed shut tightly, his still-chubby fists gripping the sheets as he called out to his big brother in utter desperation.

"Sammy!" Dean cried, flying to his brother's bedside and gripping his shoulders tightly.

A quick glance revealed that everything was where it should be: no bruises, cuts, or visible physical signs of distress. Just a nightmare, albeit a doozie.

"Sammy!" Dean repeated, more insistently this time. "I'm here, buddy! I'm here!" He pulled his little brother close to still the trembling, hoping to snap him out of the nightmare. The kid was absolutely wrecked with terror.

"What's going on?" Mr. Wesley demanded amidst the thunder of feet as the entire Wesley clan barged into the adjoining room. "What happened?"

"Dean!" Sam sobbed, clinging to his brother's t-shirt with desperate need. "No! No-no-no, Dean!"

"I'm here, Sammy!" Dean soothed, rocking his little brother back and forth and rubbing soothing circles down his back, like their Mom used to do when Dean was little and would wake up from a nightmare. "Everything's okay. I'm right here."

Mrs. Wesley rushed towards the bed, intent on swooping in to calm her weeping child, but Dean held her off with a death glare.

"Nooooo, Dean!" Sam continued to sob, his whole frame shaking as he choked on his tears, hiccupping like a drunkard and gasping for air. It was starting to really freak Dean out, seeing his brother so terrified and heartbroken.

"Sam!" Dean cried, doing his best John Winchester imitation as he gripped his brother's shoulders and giving him a gentle yet firm shake. "Snap out of it! It was just a dream!"

Sam hitched a breath and hiccupped, then froze, wild glistening eyes locking on his brother's. He seemed to stare at Dean's eyes in awe, the yet-to-be-shed tears jiggling like jello in his eyes as he gaped at his brother without blinking. Then his face positively crumbled as he began to sob with more gusto, diving into his brother's embrace again and burying his face in his neck.

"I don't want you to die!" he sobbed. "He's gonna kill you you can't die please don't leave he's gonna kill you Dean please don't die!" he sobbed, not pausing for breath between his broken pleading, his words melting into each other.

"Dude!" Dean said. "I'm okay. Look at me, Sammy. I'm okay. Look at me."

And Sam did. He lifted his shaggy-haired head and peered up at his brother, seeing the living flesh and blood and bone, seeing the not-dead eyes, the not-bruised face, the not-strangled brother looming large as legend in living colour inches from his face. And he calmed. The trembling subsided, the sobbing quieted, but the tears kept up their pace in a steady trickle down his dimpled cheeks.

"Oh Dean, it was so awful!" he whispered. "I saw... I saw him take you! And he hurt you... and then he... he... he killed you!"

"Nobody killed me, Sammy," Dean assured him, holding him close. "I'm right here. See? I'm right here. Nobody hurt me."

Sam nodded into his shoulder and sniffed loudly.

It was strange and awe-inspiring for the Wesleys to witness the open affection between the two brothers. Suzie was simply perplexed and terrified, her big brother's fear morphing into her own to the point that she was sobbing as she clung to her mother's pajama-clad leg. Jane and Peter were dumbstruck, having thought the bond between the brothers would have been severed, since Sam didn't seem to remember Dean at all.

But that was obviously not the case. Time may have washed away the details of the memories of Dean, but that Winchester boy was deeply etched into his little brother's heart. Their hearts were intertwined, and both Wesley parents felt most keenly the disservice they'd done them in separating them five years ago. It was plain to anyone with eyes and half a brain that Dean Winchester lived and breathed for his little brother. He seemed to come alive with purpose when Sam was in the room – and especially when Sam needed him. And Sam, intuitive little child that he was, seemed to be tied inextricably to his brother, sensitive to his needs and feelings in spite of the fact that he had almost no memory of him whatsoever. The bond between them was undoubtedly unbreakable.

"I need to talk to my Mom and Dad," Sam suddenly announced, pulling away from his brother's embrace.

Dean froze, his eyes dimming, and then checked himself, pulled up a mask and secured it firmly in place on his handsome young face. He looked relaxed, at ease, self-assured, when only seconds prior he'd looked devastated, afraid, unsure. The kid's features could be carved out of stone for how perfectly flawless they were, and if Jane hadn't seen the weakness before the mask came in place she wouldn't have known it was a mask at all.

"Sure thing," he said, breezy, confident, reassuring. "You know where to find me."

Sam nodded and got up on slightly wobbly legs, following his Mom and Dad into his parents' room and closing the door behind him before Suzie could join in.

"Dean's coming with us," Sam announced without preamble.

"What?" both Wesleys exclaimed in unison.

"Dean's coming with us," Sam repeated firmly. No room for arguments. "To Phoenix. He's coming with us, to live with us."

"Sam," his father argued calmly. "I understand that you're upset, and that he's your brother, but..."

"He's coming with us," Sam repeated, a dark edge to his voice now. Tears were still rolling freely down his cheeks and his lips trembled with suppressed emotion as he spoke.

"We can't bring your brother with us, Sam," his mother placated. "I wish we could, but we can't."

Sam turned on his mother with a righteous glare.

"If we leave him here he'll die."

"Sam..."

"I saw it!" Sam said sternly. "I _saw_ it!" He set his jaw forward, his bottom lip jutting out in obstinate defiance. "Dean wasn't lying earlier when he said someone was trying to kill him. I don't know who and I don't know why, but someone's going to kill him. Someone who's watching him from this hotel."

"It was just a dream, son," his father assured him.

"NO!" Sam insisted, his voice rising with anger and panic. "It wasn't a dream! It was like... like a warning. If we don't bring him with us that man will find Dean and he'll kill him!"

"Honey," his mother soothed. "Baby, I know you're scared..."

"Mom, will you just trust me?" Sam begged. "Will you please just listen to me and trust me?" He looked at each of his parents in turn, his eyes pleading for understanding. "We can save Dean," he insisted. "We have to save Dean."

"Did your brother put you up to this?" his mother asked warily, and Sam felt his heart harden at the implication.

"No," Sam hissed. "He doesn't know what I saw, and if you guys will just listen to me he'll never know."

"Baby, it's okay to have bad dreams," she soothed, bending down to meet her son at eye level. "You were worried about what your brother said earlier and that worry came through in your dreams. It's natural. But that doesn't mean that you saw what was going to happen. That just isn't possible."

Sam shook his head adamantly.

"NO!" he cried, tears springing fresh with newborn frustration. "I couldn't have dreamed that! There were things that... he did things that... I don't understand..."

Both parents exchanged nervous glances.

"What kind of things?" his father asked timidly. "What did you dream, Sam?"

"H-he... the man... he did things to Dean," Sam whispered. "Tied him to a bed and... and climbed on t-top of him and... he put his... thing... in Dean, and he moved _inside_ him... like..." his voice cracked and his lip quivered as he pointed at his own backside. "Down there," he whispered.

The Wesleys both blanched, knowing that their naive young son didn't know the first thing about sex, that he couldn't possibly know about sodomy, and that it was therefore very unlikely that his own imagination had conjured up these images.

"Did..." his father cleared his throat with a cough. "Did Dean tell you about... what happens when... a man lies in bed with another man?"

Sam's expression was one of complete bafflement. His brow drew together in confusion, his mouth dipping down into a frown.

"Why would a man lie in bed with another man?" he asked quietly, completely bewildered. "And why would the bad man...." Sam swallowed convulsively. "Why would he hurt Dean... by doing that to him?"

It was entirely too late to be having this discussion with a ten year-old, Peter Wesley thought. And the boy was entirely too young. He didn't want to know how Sam had come to know about homosexual sex, and he especially didn't want to think about what that said about Dean. But it just couldn't be possible that Sam had somehow dreamt of a future attack on his older brother. That kind of thing just didn't happen, unless there was witchcraft or devilry involved. And he refused to believe that sweet little Sam could somehow be tainted with the mark of Cain.

"Sam, it was just a dream, son," Peter insisted, calmly but firmly. "Dean is going to be just fine."

Sam was shaking his head again.

"No," he said adamantly. "No he won't."

"Sam..."

"If you don't let Dean come with us, I will _never_ forgive you," Sam declared. And by the dangerous glint in his eye they could tell he meant every word.

"Honey, that isn't fair," his mother said.

"I will _**never**_ forgive you!" Sam repeated, his jaw set.

It was as simple as that, really. Sam had drawn his line in the sand and he wasn't backing down. He was convinced that his brother's life was in their hands and that if they didn't bring him with them to Phoenix to live with them he would be brutally murdered.

"Dean doesn't have a home," Sam added pointedly. "He needs us. He needs me." His eyes burned like flint, reminding them both of the older brother when he was Sam's age and had declared his intention to kill them for taking Sam away from him. "And if you don't let him come with us I'll never, ever, _ever_ forgive you."

And it was as simple as that.

888


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Notes:**

All right, ladies! Here we are again with chapter 5. A lot happens in this chapter, so I apologize if it feels sort of all over the place. I was actually aiming for a kind of "rushed" feel, but it might just seem manic instead. lol. We're finally moving past the ickiness and into some brotherly schmoop. Yay! Told you it was coming!

I won't be as quick with the next update because I'm moving and the next chapter isn't written yet. So I hope that those of you who are following along with this won't mind waiting a few extra days. But at least it's a long weekend! If you've got a minute or two to spare, please let me know how you're liking it so far. And also feel free to toss any requests my way. I've got the general story arc sort of plotted out in my mind, but I might be feeling generous, as there's room for lots of things to happen in between... ;)

* * *

Chapter 5

Dean had the sneaking suspicion that things were about to hit the fan when he was summoned in for a private conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Wesley. He'd tried to get some kind of sense of what was going on from his brother, but Sam's look was hard to read. He looked angry and jazzed at the same time, determined and oddly fierce for a ten year-old, but calm. Dean suspected that Sam had just won some kind of battle and that Dean was now going in to learn what the spoils of that victory would be.

"Have a seat," Mr. Wesley instructed when the door was closed and the three were alone in private.

"I'd rather stand, thanks," Dean argued, not wanting to be sitting while the adults were towering over him. It put him at a disadvantage.

"Suit yourself," the man said with a sigh, grabbing a plush chair near the window and pulling it close to the desk so that his wife could sit down and then repeating the action with a matching chair for himself.

Dean shrugged and sat at the desk. He _did_ feel a bit wobbly after the rude awakening of Sam's nightmare, after all, and he'd been feeling kind of hot in the face, shaky even, for a few days. Still, he sat gingerly, trying to be kind to his behind.

"Dean, can you please tell us what happened in the hotel earlier today?" Mr. Wesley asked.

"I already told you –"

"And no lies this time," Mrs. Wesley cut him off.

Screw this, Dean thought. He didn't owe these people anything. Folding his arms stubbornly across his chest, he stared resolutely ahead, his face as blank as stone.

"Dean..." the man sighed, his voice tinged with the slightest hint of a whine. "We're bringing you with us to Phoenix. Please don't argue," he cut off Dean's protest with a wave of his hand. "I don't know what business you've got that brought you here, but I'm certain it's not the business of a child."

"I'm not a child!" Dean growled stubbornly.

"_Yes_, you are," the man said sternly. "And by the looks of things you've got no one taking proper care of you."

Dean huffed a mirthless laugh.

"Figure you'll get it right this time?" he taunted bitterly. "Cos you know, if you get bored with me I'm pretty sure the warranty's expired. There's no bringing me back to the store this time around when things don't work out."

He was intensely satisfied to see that the insult had cut deep. Both husband and wife looked as though they'd been slapped, or kicked in the gut. _Good_. They deserved it.

"Dean, we're not going to argue with you," Mrs. Wesley said in a tone that was too calm to be anything but condescending. "But if you're going to be coming to live with us there are some things we need to know."

"Who says I want to live with you?" Dean demanded, his tone scathing.

The woman didn't appear to be hurt by this barb. If anything, her eyes softened.

"You mean you don't want to live with Sam?" she queried, and _damnit_, she had him. Dean had not three hours ago thought long and hard about selling his soul to live with his baby brother again, to have him in his life again. But he couldn't help but wonder if his pleas had been heard, if the Devil would be coming to collect. There had to be a catch. Good things just didn't happen to him.

"That's what we thought," Mr. Wesley said. "But before we do this, Dean, we've got some ground to cover. You need to be honest with us about some things."

"What were you really doing in the hotel today?" the woman asked, and her eyes were soft. "Did you know the man? The one that was chasing you?"

Dean shrugged and stared at a rip in the knee of his jeans, which were too small for him since his last growth spurt.

"Did you know him, Dean?" the husband pressed.

Again Dean shrugged.

"Yes. Well, no?... Not really..." He knew he was pouting but couldn't help it, kept his head down, his chin to his chest. Cleared his throat. "Vinnie dropped me off here at around lunch... to meet a friend of his that's staying here."

"And Vinnie's the man you live with?" Mrs. Wesley asked.

Dean nodded.

"And how do you know him?"

This was where the bottom dropped out. Dean knew it now. Their offer to take him with them _had_ been too good to be true. Because now it was all going to slip away – his chance to get out of this hell hole fucking life, his chance to be with Sammy again – it was all going to disappear as soon as he opened his mouth and told them the truth. He just needed to think of a plausible lie, one not quite as disgusting as prostitution. No way would they bring a prostitute into their home, let it live with their kids and touch their things. No way would they let it near Sam or Suzie.

His bottom lip was trembling despite his best efforts to keep it still, and he could feel a few fat salty tears trickling down his cheek. God he just wanted to disappear.

"Dean?" Mr. Wesley asked, so quiet, so sad.

He wiped at his eyes furiously, hating himself for the tears even as his shoulders shook. He was full-out crying now, like a little girl, wasn't he? Crying because he hated himself. Crying because he was dirty and used up and worthless. Crying because he wanted his brother so badly, needed his family for his soul to survive, and he was never going to be good enough for either of them. Crying because the couple now looming over him in feigned concern _knew_ what he was.

"Dean?" the man repeated, softer, his voice ringing with concern.

"Don't tell Sammy," Dean whispered brokenly.

"Don't tell Sammy what?" the man asked, crouching down, trying to catch Dean's eye. "Hey, it's okay. Don't tell Sammy what?"

Dean inhaled deeply, his breath hitching, as a sob broke loose.

"That I'm a... a wh-whore!" he sobbed and stared intently at his jeans through blurry eyes. "I c-came h-here to meet a... a John," he sniffed. "An' when he left for a call I saw... he h-had a suit-suitcase," gulping for air, "full of... kn-knives an' rope an'... chl-chloroform... an' I got scared so I... I r-ran!"

He raised too green, red-rimmed eyes, pleading for forgiveness, for absolution.

"I saw Sammy an' Suzie openin' the door right when the elevator was dingin' down the hall... an' I thought it was... _h-him_, comin' back... an' I thought he was gonna kill me so I hid in here. An' now Vinnie's gonna fuckin' kill me cos I stiffed the John... I didn't... d-do the job!"

He felt light-headed and dizzy as panic gripped him. What if Vinnie came to the hotel to look for him? No doubt the John had called him by now to let him know Dean had bailed without putting out first. Dean had to get out of there now.

"Whoa, whoa, where do you think you're going?" Mr. Wesley demanded quietly, laying a hand on his shoulder to ease him back down into the chair.

"I gotta go," Dean muttered, averting his eyes, not wanting to look directly at them. "I gotta get outta here."

"Hey, it's okay," the man assured him, giving his shoulder a squeeze. "You're safe now, Dean. We're here and we won't let anyone hurt you, okay?"

"And when you're not?" Dean croaked. "When you go back to Phoenix? Then what?"

"Dean, we already told you," Mrs. Wesley supplied. "You're coming back to Phoenix with us."

Dean swallowed and licked his lips, blinking past the tears. Were they serious? Hadn't they just heard what he said?

"Just take a deep breath," Mr. Wesley instructed. "Everything's going to be okay, Dean. Tomorrow Jane will take you and the kids back to Phoenix – I'll meet you back there on Monday when this conference is finished. And in the meantime we're going to call the police and g—"

"NO!" Dean shouted. "No cops!"

"Dean," Mrs. Wesley complained.

"NO!" Dean insisted.

"The police need to know about the man that tried to hurt you," she said, as if he was braindead or something and didn't realize that the guy was dangerous.

"He didn't try to hurt me," Dean corrected. "He didn't _touch_ me."

"Well he would have if you hadn't run out," she supplied.

"They won't believe me."

The last time he'd relied on the police had been a year ago. He'd been cornered by three gang-bangers and had managed to give them the slip. A nearby patrol car had seemed like as good a sanctuary as any, but the cop on duty had taken one look at Dean and smirked. He'd been the arresting officer three months prior in a dingy motel when Dean and another boy had been caught soliciting to an undercover cop. Dean tried telling the officer that there were people after him and the officer had laughed at him – actually laughed at him – and accused him of skipping out without paying his tab. Had taken him by the goddamned scruff of the neck and escorted him back to the alley.

'This one yours, boys?' he'd asked. 'Sorry kid, but you're better off payin' your dues now than skippin' off and waitin' for them to take it outta your hide later.'

The three men had nodded knowingly and had taken turns raping him when the cop disappeared back to his car.

Dean really, really, really hated cops.

"We're not calling the fucking police!" Dean growled.

"Dean..."

"I'll lie and tell them I don't know anything," he promised. "I swear, if you call the cops I'll just tell them I don't know what you're talking about!"

And on this issue he was not willing to budge. He was as immoveable as stone.

"If you wanna take me with you, fine. But I'm not talking to the cops. I'm not. I don't care what you do – but no cops."

That effectively silenced them on the issue of the mysterious would-be killer. Dean felt a twinge of guilt at his own cowardice, thinking inwardly that the man down the hall would just find someone else to use his toys on, find some other hopeless boy to butcher. But right now that wasn't his problem, and even if Dean did speak up it probably wouldn't help anyway. The cops wouldn't believe him.

"All right then," Mr. Wesley finally said with a loud huff, conceding defeat. "I can see that you're as stubborn as your brother."

Dean actually grinned at that.

"Fine then," the man said. "Go get some sleep. I'll make arrangements for your flight home and then you guys will head back first thing tomorrow. Get you out of here and away from... all this," he said, waving vaguely with his hands in the air. "Then we're going to work on laying out a few ground rules."

"Ground rules?" That didn't sound good.

"Yes," both parents said in unison.

"Like no swearing," Mrs. Wesley said.

"And curfew," Mr. Wesley added.

"And being respectful to your elders," Mrs. Wesley said. "Going to school, doing your homework..."

Dean huffed another hollow laugh.

"You sure you wouldn't just rather lock me up in the basement?" He wiped a few remaining tears off his now drying cheeks and tried for his best scowl. "Cos you're pretty much gonna have to if you think I'm gonna follow all that."

"Yeah, we'll see, tough guy," Mr. Wesley joked ruefully. Dean tried his hardest not to shudder at the memory of the last time he'd been called that. He still hurt from the last time he'd been called that.

"Just get some rest, okay?" the man said. "I'm sure your brother's dying to talk to you. You can stay up for another half-hour, then I want you both back in bed. You've got a long day tomorrow and an early flight."

Flight?

Dean gulped. He'd thought he was afraid when he laid eyes on that suitcase full of torture devices, but he was wrong. Planes were much, much scarier.

888

First Class or Icarus's wings, flying sucked. The plane was loud, bumpy, and completely _not_ natural being all up in the air and not falling through the sky to bloody doom. And it was made all the worse when you were scared shitless and had a seven year-old laughing at you. Dean had been lucky enough to be seated next to Sam, with Suzie and Jane taking up the two seats across the aisle from them in First Class, but having his little brother next to him did little to soothe his jitters. The fact that Sam kept tittering helplessly in his seat next to him, and that Suzie was beside herself with laughter, added insult to injury. He wished they'd give alcohol to minors, or that he had some of Vinnie's blow on him. Just to take the edge off.

Thankfully they made it to Arizona without crashing. Dean's hands were sore and stiff from gripping the arm rests so tightly. There was a hired car waiting for them at the airport, a really big sporty thing that looked like it could bulldoze other cars off the road. Dean wondered idly how big the Wesleys' house was. They seemed kind of well-to-do.

"All right," Jane announced. Dean had decided on the flight that he was going to call them Jane and Peter and not anything even remotely resembling Mom or Dad.

"Henry's going to drop you guys," looking at Sam and Suzie, "off at your grandparents' house. Dean and I have a few errands to run."

"We do?" Dean asked skeptically. The idea of being led off alone with Jane to God-knows-where made him extremely nervous. "Can't they come with us?"

"Trust me, you don't want to go anywhere with Suzie when she's been traveling all day."

"Well Sam then," Dean proposed. "Just drop Suzie off and let Sam come with us."

He did not want to be alone with Jane. He didn't trust this bitch as far as he could throw her.

"Maybe next time," Jane said absently. It was obvious she had no intention of bringing Sam.

The hairs on the back of Dean's neck stood on end and he found himself reaching for the handle of the door in case he needed to make a quick escape. His insides felt suddenly cold, his hands clammy. It was a bit disconcerting, especially considering he felt feverish and hot all over.

"Why?" he demanded. "Where are we going?"

The blood was pounding in his ears as he imagined all the replies he was likely to get: _'Well Dean, we've decided to drop you off with Child Protective Services to get you a proper placement with a family here in Phoenix,'_ or '_There's a lady on the outskirts of town who needs a live-in slave and we think you'd fit the bill just perfectly, Dean,'_ or _'The sex trade is really booming here in Phoenix, Dean, and there's an opening at the local brothel,'_ all seemed plausible from where Dean was sitting.

And when Jane took too long with her answer Dean's guts twisted in irrational fear that it was the latter response perched on her lips.

"Well, shopping for one," she said, evasive and avoiding eye contact. "Seeing as you've only got the clothes on your back, and those don't even fit you properly, you're going to need a whole new wardrobe."

"But Sam can come for th—"

"Sam's going with Suzie to his grandparents' house," she said firmly. End of discussion. Well screw that! This woman was not John Winchester. She didn't say 'jump' and get 'how high' or 'yessir.' But how to argue with her without sounding like a complete and utter wuss.

"There are some things that we big kids need to do on our own, right Dean?" Jane asked archly, her eyes quickly darting to Sam and then back to Dean. Her meaning was clear enough: 'you don't want to talk about this in front of your brother.' There was nothing malicious or underhanded in her looks, and he could see that she was trying to convey to him that the secrecy was for his own good, not meant as some kind of trick. That he'd want her to be discreet about whatever it was they had planned. Still, it didn't mean he was going to like it.

His worry about whatever it was they were about to do that Sammy couldn't know about flew clean out of his head when they pulled up in front of what could only be described as a mansion. The place was huge – like "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous" _huge_. All they needed was Robin Leach and a camera crew and they were all set.

"_This_ is your grandparents' house?" Dean asked, jaw to the floor and utterly flabbergasted.

"Uh-huh," Sam said proudly, grinning wide at his big brother. "Cool, huh?"

"Dude," Dean said in complete awe. "This isn't a house, this is a freakin' castle."

"They have a tennis court," Suzie said. "And a playhouse for me."

"It's mine too!" Sam argued hotly.

"Nuh-uh!" Suzie retorted. "Grandma says it's a girl's playhouse!"

"She did not!" Sam insisted. "Mo-om!"

Jane sighed at the squabbling and looked skyward for strength.

"Enough!" she ordered sternly. "The playhouse is for both of you. Now go on inside and don't be a nuisance!" The last part was called to their retreating backs as they both exited the car and scrambled madly toward the house in a race to see who could get there first.

And then without further ado the driver put the monstrous vehicle into drive and Dean and Jane were off on a mystery shopping adventure mano a mano.

Dean couldn't wait.

888

Shopping with fourteen year-old Dean Winchester was about as fun as pulling out your own teeth with a pair of tweezers. He didn't want to try anything on, blatantly refused to even look at anything remotely trendy or popular in style, and hummed and hawed every time Jane pulled out her credit card to make a purchase. She could feel the tension radiating off the teen in waves. He eyed her with wary suspicion, everything in his looks indicating that he was looking for the strings attached to the kindness and generosity. She knew he thought these items would come at a price that he would eventually be asked to pay. He'd always been made to pay.

One thing shopping with the boy made certain, however, was that Jane had made the right decision in making plans with Dean for this afternoon. He needed to see a doctor, and the sooner the better. The flush she'd noticed in his cheeks the day before, the one she'd attributed to stress, embarrassment, and adrenaline overload, was still blushing his pale features today. He looked drawn and slightly glassy-eyed – another feature she'd tossed up to the after-effects of having been drugged by that John. But he was fever-hot to the touch, too. And Sam had warned her that his big brother probably wasn't feeling well, as he'd heard him throwing up in the bathroom that morning.

Watching him fish through clothing, his bony arms peeking out of a t-shirt that was so small it was almost showing off his mid-drift, Jane couldn't help but think the poor boy looked like he was starving to death. He was skinny, even for a teenager in the midst of a growth spurt, and the weight loss looked somehow recent, as though he'd suffered a bout of illness that shed the weight off his bones like husked corn.

She wished that was the worst of her observations, but it wasn't. Pain danced in his eyes every now and then when he sat down or stood up, pain that could only come from one source, and it broke her heart to think of someone so young ever having to suffer like he was suffering now. Sam's dream brought horrifying images to her mind, images of this poor child being brutalized and beaten. And she couldn't deny the fact that, horrifying as those images were, they were probably a reality for Dean. Prostitution was a rough trade, especially for young people on the streets. Male prostitutes in particular tended to be victims of brutal hate crimes and sexual assaults – victims of hate-filled power plays by alpha males with an axe to grind and something to prove. Jane had heard horror stories first-hand when she was younger and volunteered at the rescue mission near her church.

That's how she knew Dean needed to see a doctor right away.

He did not take the news of her intentions well – at all – but he did comply. In spite of his sharp tongue and blatant disrespect, he was quite obviously capable of obedience. When she made it clear that he was going to the doctor this afternoon and that there would be no arguments on the subject, he'd grown quiet and moody but had held his peace. She suspected it was a sign of how truly ill he must be feeling if he was willing to admit defeat to her on something that was obviously wounding to his pride.

"He's a private family doctor," Jane assured him, hoping that would make him feel better. "I've explained a bit about your situation and he has promised to be discreet."

"My situation?" he'd asked archly, then promptly let the matter drop.

When they'd finally arrived at the private practice, the clean glass doors gliding open when their steps set off the motion detectors, Jane had felt a little bit like the hangman leading the condemned to the gallows. Poor Dean was putting on a brave face, though he looked terrified, his breathing heavy and his eyes wide. The deer-in-the-headlights look he gave her when she left him with the nurse to get changed into a Johnny shirt brought tears to her eyes.

"I want you to check everything," she'd explained to Dr. Simmonds. "Tox screen, STDs, any untreated injuries or infections... The whole nine yards."

He'd been understanding, as he always was, nodding his kindly gray head and promising he'd leave no stone unturned. Jane wished it could have been a woman doctor – Dean would probably be more comfortable being examined by a woman doctor. But Dr. Simmonds had been treating the Wesleys for years and there was no one she trusted more to be kind and gentle and sensitive.

And so her heart was heavy when he led her into his private office after all the poking and prodding and testing was completed. The doctor's eyes were downcast and misty, and he rubbed at his chin as if to scrub away unwanted memories.

"That boy is in a bad way," he said simply. "I know you said he'd been working the streets but..." he cleared his throat. "There were clear signs of physical trauma. Some recent injuries: a dislocated shoulder that's mostly healed; signs of head trauma showing up on the CT. Nothing that time won't heal, but alarming nonetheless."

Jane nodded, willing that to be the worst of it.

"There's some scarring in Dean's rectum," he said soberly. "As well as very recent tearing – bad tearing. Tearing that could only be caused by a foreign object inserted forcefully." He shook his head sadly, his eyes looking up to her for answers. "Has he been to the police about the rape?"

Jane shook her head no, unable to speak and near blinded by the tears welling up in her eyes. She thought she might pass out or throw up but held herself upright by sheer force of will. She owed it to Dean to keep it together. If he could bear to endure it being done to him, she could surely endure to hear about it.

"Jane..." Dr. Simmonds sighed. "Dean was violently brutalized. I doubt he sought treatment and I'm surprised he's even able to stand, quite frankly. Because of the tearing in his rectum there's been some seepage. As a result, he's developed a severe infection. At this point sitting down would be torturous for Dean, and passing a bowel movement simply unbearable."

She cleared her throat and tried to speak but her words fell flat.

"I'm writing him a prescription for antibiotics to clear up the infection, but he's going to need to have the damage to his rectum repaired immediately. I'm scheduling him in for later today. I'm also recommending a stool softener to help with his bowel movements until his rectum has healed."

"Yes, doctor, that's fine," Jane replied, finding her voice at last, though it sounded like a frog had taken up residence in her throat.

"As for the other tests, he's got a clean bill for your standard STDs, though we'll have to wait a few weeks on the HIV test. Kidney, liver and heart functions are all normal." Then he frowned and gave Jane the 'now here's the bad news' look. "Tox screen came up positive for cocaine."

Jane had feared something like this. She held her breath a long moment and when she released it it was shuddering. Her hands shook.

"For what it's worth," the doctor added, "I don't think he's a habitual user. He doesn't have any of the classic indicators – no needle marks, no damage to the nasal passages, no erosion. My best guess would be that he's used it recreationally a few times recently... possibly at the insistence of whoever's company he's been keeping...?"

It didn't really make her feel any better. Fourteen year-olds were supposed to be concerned about clothes and pimples and school dances and grades, not STDs and torn rectums and cocaine. It was all simply too heavy, a great burdensome weight pressing down on her and crushing her with its awesome girth.

"I would also strongly recommend counseling," the doctor added. "I see a lot of strength in Dean, but it's the strong ones who tend to take on too much and end up getting buried in troubles. He's been through hell, Jane. I think he would really benefit from having some professional help in dealing with what's happened to him."

Jane nodded solemnly, woodenly, her head bobbing almost mechanically as she stared ahead through the wall in a daze. What the hell had they gotten themselves into, taking this on? A traumatized teenaged prostitute and recreational drug user who was probably a junior high school drop-out living in their home, sleeping under their roof and sitting at their table...

Her own thoughts slapped her in the face. Dean Winchester was a child. Just a child. No matter what he'd done or had done to him, he was still a child first and he needed her family's love and acceptance and understanding. If anything, _she_ was to blame for the way his life had turned out. She was the one who had refused to open her home to him when he was still young and innocent. Lord forgive her, he'd been younger than Sam was now when she'd turned him from her door, left him alone and pleading for his brother. It was her fault that he was awaiting surgery to repair damage done to him by men who'd feasted on his flesh, who'd taken from him what no one had any right to take.

She deserved Dean's hatred and scorn. She deserved worse.

"Jane," Dr. Simmonds said. "Why don't you go take a walk. Grab yourself a cup of coffee, clear your head a bit. You look as if you're about to collapse."

Jane blinked past her tears and forced herself to speak. "I should really stay with Dean."

"I think he would prefer to be alone right now," the kindly doctor assured her. "The exam was... unsettling, to him. We're giving him some time to compose himself, get his feelings under control a bit, before we prep him for surgery."

"Maybe I could just pop in and see how he's doing?" she suggested.

"He doesn't want to see you, Jane." His look was apologetic.

"Right. Yes. Of course," Jane stammered. "Of course... I – I'll just go. I'll be back."

Her hollow, empty body carried her woodenly from the office, through glass doors, down the corridor, into the elevator. She barely breathed. When the telltale 'Ding!' brought her to the main floor, she wound her way through the foyer to the women's restroom and hurled herself into an empty stall. Her sobs echoed piteously through the stark lighting and checkered tile.

888

_Welcome to Phoenix_, Dean thought with a heart that was hollow and empty. As far as introductions to new lives went, this one was just awesome. Being separated from Sammy was tons of fun, right up there with having his shoulder reset. And shopping with Jane? – wow! They might as well make a weekly thing of it; it was _that_ fun. But the highlight, the absolute best, was being dragged into the doctor's office for a good once-over to make sure he wasn't too much of a dirty whore to bring into their home. Gotta make sure the stray doesn't have fleas, won't give the other kitties worms. And it might be a good idea to get a rabies vaccine, because you never know where that Dean Winchester's been...

He didn't even raise his eyes to take a single glance at the house when the monster mobile pulled into the driveway. Eyes looked onto the floor and remained there when Jane showed Dean inside, attempting to give him something of a tour. He just wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear, fade into nothing and cease to exist. That'd be nice right about now.

"Can I please go to my room now?" he dared ask through the crushing feeling of defeat that numbed him to everything but the pain of being completely worthless. They were the only words he'd spoken to Jane since he'd awoken after the procedure to repair the damage Vinnie had done two weeks ago on the kitchen floor. He was still groggy and sore, and his fever from the infection had brought on a pounding headache behind his eyes. All in all, he felt like shit and couldn't wait for the oblivion of sleep to carry him away from everything.

"Of course," he heard Jane say in that defeated, sad voice she'd been using since they left the private practice. "I bet Sam here would love to show you your new room."

And then he felt a small, warm hand in his as his little brother came up close beside him. Dean didn't dare look over, didn't dare make eye contact, because the day had been too enormous. He just couldn't look at his brother without feeling everything ten-fold.

"It's okay, Dean," Sammy whispered, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

Dean followed his brother, eyes still downcast, up a long, wide flight of stairs that twisted on two separate landings. He trudged along absently, every step more tiring than the one before it. At last they arrived at a door to the room Dean assumed was his and Sam led him inside. Dean barely spared a glance around, noting that the room was huge and that there was a desk with a computer, noting that the bed was at least a Queen-sized and that the blankets looked warm and puffy. The clothes that Jane had bought for him earlier that afternoon were all neatly folded in a pile at the end of the bed.

"You have your own bathroom," Sam beamed, dragging his tired and reluctant big brother toward the en-suite bathroom and flicking on the light. "The bath has jets in it, see?"

Because the kid was so sweet and was everything Dean ever needed, he allowed the grin that was tugging at his lips to grow into a smile.

"I picked it for you," Sam said proudly. "It's the biggest one, besides the one Grammy and Grampy use when they come to visit from Maine. Do you like it?"

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean said, giving the kid a hearty hair-ruffle. "It's perfect. Now amscray while big brother gets in the shower. I'm tired and I've been wearin' the same clothes for two freakin' days."

"Kay," Sam said. He turned to leave but then paused at the doorway and turned back. Dean watched in puzzled amusement as the kid chewed his bottom lip with worry, a question in his eyes that he dared not ask.

"What is it?" Dean prompted.

Sam fidgeted, shuffling his feet and picking at a spot on his hand.

"Nothin'... uh... It's just..."

"Spit it out, Sammy," Dean urged.

"Well I was wondering if maybe..." his hazel eyes looked up hopefully. "I was wondering if maybe I could... If it would be okay if... If I _couldsleepinherewithyoutonight_."

Dean laughed in spite of the weariness that had settled into his bones.

"You wanna try that again in English?" he teased.

"I'm scared," Sam said timidly. "Of the man... my dream... I... can I sleep in here with you tonight?"

Dean felt a light poking through the darkness in his heart and wondered idly how it was that his little brother could smile at him and make such a dirty boy feel clean again.

888

Peter Wesley had never been so happy to see the end of a work gathering. The conference had been well organized, and some of the guest speakers had been really engaging and inspirational in offering their expert opinions about the insurance industry and growing trends. At any other time he'd have been completely engrossed. But this was definitely a time of personal upheaval for the Wesley family, what with the sudden re-introduction of Dean Winchester into their lives. He was suddenly the father of three now – no matter how much Dean would rebel against it – and he really needed to wrap his head around it. So it was with feelings of intense relief that he wheeled his luggage down the corridor, the faint click of the hotel room door closing still echoing in his memory, as he bid New York City goodbye to rejoin his family. He couldn't wait to leave this nightmare behind, though he had more than a few fears of what kind of new nightmares were still waiting on the horizon.

"Well, another one bites the dust," a booming, jovial voice called from the elevator when Peter angled his way around the corner. "I guess we'll be seeing you at the next one. Spain, if I'm not mistaken?"

"You're not," Peter replied, grinning.

"I thought you'd brought the wife and kids along," the man, Richard, said with a curious frown.

"I did," Peter said hesitantly. "They left yesterday. Family emergency."

He heard the sound of wheels rolling on the carpet as another hotel patron rolled his luggage toward the elevator, coming up from behind him. Turning with a grin, he found another work colleague pushing a trolley with three suitcases on it.

"Dennis!" Richard crowed. "Fantastic job with the luncheon yesterday!"

"Thanks," Dennis, the newcomer, said with a blush. "Had a bit of trouble with the room bookings – I guess there was a mix-up downstairs with the scheduling coordinator."

"Well you'd never know it," Richard said. "Looked like it went off without a hitch."

"I agree," Peter added. "The catering service was really something. Who did you use again?"

"Independent chef, actually," the man said, smiling a little smugly. Peter noticed that he seemed to be rather heavily packed, with two regular-sized suitcases and one large one.

"Anyway, as we were saying, Peter," Richard cut in. "I hope it's nothing serious."

"You hope what's nothing serious?"

"With your family," the man said. "The family emergency."

"Oh that," Peter said, sighing at the memory. "Yes, everything's fine."

Dennis shifted from his right leg to his left and leaned on the heavier suitcase.

"Something happen?" he queried politely.

Honestly, Peter wasn't really sure what to tell his colleagues about Dean. Eventually they would find out that he'd taken in another foster child. News tended to travel fast around his office. Maybe it would be best to at least fill them in on something.

"It's my son Dean," he explained at last, playing with the truth the tiniest bit. After all, there was no need to give them any of the details. "He's a recent addition to our family and... well, he's having a hard time adjusting. We thought it would be best if Jane and the kids went back home. Gave him some stability."

"Dean?" Dennis asked, one eyebrow quirked in curiosity. "How long has he been with you?"

Peter coughed uncomfortably.

"Not too long," he said vaguely. "He's actually Sam's older brother. Biologically, I mean."

"Got yourself a two-for-one deal, eh Pete?" Richard joked. The elevator dinged and all three men ambled their way inside. "Naw," he said. "It's great that you were able to reunite them. Had they been in contact at all before you took him in?"

Peter shook his head no. "Dean kind of got lost in the foster system," he admitted sadly. "I guess you could say a chance collision brought the boys together again."

The second ding announced their arrival at the main lobby.

"That's really great news, Peter," Dennis said as he stepped off of the elevator. His smile was soft and genuine and Peter noted that there was a brightness to his gray eyes that surprised him a little. He'd always found them to be strangely cold.

"Thanks, Dennis. It won't be easy having a teenager around the house, but I really believe the Lord led Dean to us."

Dennis nodded, one hand rubbing absently at the blue, paisley tie at his neck. "Yes, the Lord has a funny way of bringing people together like that, even when they seem lost to us forever. Mysterious ways, and all..."

_Mysterious indeed_, Peter thought. His friend didn't even know the half of it.

"Right, well... I believe that's my car waiting to take me to the airport. Dennis, I believe I'll be seeing you on the flight?"

"Mine's a later flight, actually," Dennis admitted. "The earlier flight was booked solid."

"Right," Peter said. "Well then, I guess I'll see you on Monday."

"Taking the week off?" Richard queried with a chuckle.

"Yes," Peter replied, feeling truly glad within himself that he had a family to go home to, glad that it had gotten larger in spite of the bumps that lie on the road ahead. "I think it's about time I spent some quality time with my wife and kids."

And Peter allowed those thoughts to carry him home, never noticing the white-knuckled grip that Dennis had on the handle of his suitcase, or the miniscule flicker of darkness that passed over his eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Notes:**

A bit more exposition in this chapter to set the stage for life with the Wesleys. Soon we'll be coming upon all kinds of firsts: school, girls, cars, etc. But we needed to get this stuff out of the way first. So without further ado...

* * *

Chapter 6

I love it when things work out better than I'd planned. It's like Christmas come early – like winning big on that Super Bowl bet. Hallelujah! Praise the Lord... or something like that.

I've debated doing this for some time and have finally decided that it's time to indulge in a little gloating. I've earned it. A few millennia of planning, plotting and struggling in the bowels of Hell only to crawl topside to wreak a little havoc reaps its own rewards, I confess. But I've been diligent the last few decades, have made a few key moves that have really gotten the ball rolling. I've made sacrifices, bathed myself in virgin blood and had a ball doing it.

So yeah, I've earned some bragging rights. And John Winchester? Well he's just too tempting to let pass. Mr. Hunter-Gonna-Take-Down-a-Demon rotting away behind bars thinking about how much he wants me dead, not even knowing who or what I am, deserves being brought down a peg or two. And now that he's a captive audience, I think it's only fair to share my good news with him.

The poor bastard I'm riding is crawling inside himself at the news I've got to share; it's _that_ juicy.

Between you and me, I enjoy possessing a man in uniform. Call me crazy, but it's kinda fun to play the part, and the outfit really helps to get the feel of the character, to play the part with real enthusiasm. And I really want to put on a show. I want it to be authentic.

John doesn't suspect anything is different when his regular guard walks brusquely past his cell; doesn't even lift his head in acknowledgement as the CO pauses before the bars and peers inside. He's reading a book, lost in thought. Christ he looks old! Last time I saw him he was a young father, all soft edges and black hair. Now he's hard and chiseled out of stone, gruff and bearded with dustings of gray. His time in the pokey's added a few years to his face, I see. Wait 'til he hears what I've got to share.

"Hey Winchester!" I say, giving the bars a startling rap with my baton.

He looks up, his dark eyes unreadable. Maybe a little bored. Definitely tired. He watches and waits, not really expecting me to have anything of import to say, not really interested regardless.

"I'd have thought you'd be off making a phone call or sending a card or something," I say conversationally, "considering what day it is today."

That's got him. His eyes darken and he closes his book, sitting up straight on his bed.

"Little Sammy turns ten today, right?" I taunt, and he's definitely stiffening, bristling. God it's funny that this hunter ever held any delusions about being able to kill me. I'm looking forward to rubbing his face in it.

"Who the hell are you and what do you want?" His voice is positively dripping with hatred and I find myself swelling at the darkness dwelling deep within this man. Here is a soul that Hell would salivate over, such dark, righteous fury waiting to be carved and perverted.

"Why John," I say lightly, "I can't believe you don't remember me. Going on ten years now since I burned sweet Mary up on the ceiling and you don't even have the decency to remember my face?" I flash my yellow eyes for full effect. "Kinda rude, don't you think?"

He's on his feet in a flash, hands gripping the bars in white-knuckled fury as I step back beyond his reach. It's useless anyway – he couldn't harm me even if he tried. He's got no protective sigils, no Key of Solomon or Devil's Traps. No salt, no holy water. He's trapped like a caged tiger, helpless against me and my tongue – which I'm presently going to use to tear his sanity to shreds. I need only speak the truth.

"You sonofabitch!" he growls quietly. Doesn't want to draw the attention of his fellow prisoners or the other correctional officers. "I'll fucking kill you!"

"From in there?" I taunt. "Now _that_ I'd like to see."

I've seen a lot of human failing and human darkness in the thousands of years I've lived as a demon, and even in the years before then, when I was one of God's warriors, and I can safely say that I've never quite seen anything like John Winchester. The things that man is capable of, to satisfy his thirst for revenge, to protect the ones that he loves, would be staggering to most humans. I can see right into this man and what I see is vast and frightening.

"Why?" he asks through grit teeth. "Why'd you do it? Was it Sam?"

I can't help but grin.

"See, I knew you were a smart one," I say, chuckling. "Stumbled upon a detail or two about my plans, did you Johnny? About my plans for Sammy and the psychic wonder kids?"

He's seething, nodding grimly.

"I gotta tell you, he's always been my favourite," I concede. "His Momma being such a hot little firebrand, and him bein' all juiced up with my demon blood..." I sigh in satisfaction. "He's got the best of her and the worst of you, John. That makes him _perfect _for what I've got planned."

He's shaking his head in denial, as if looking murder at me will have any effect whatsoever.

"And this?" I go on, waving a hand at the general direction of his cell. "This is just gravy, Johnny boy. You landing yourself in here on your quest to kill me, leaving those poor, sweet little boys all vulnerable and defenseless? Why, that's just a gift, isn't it? Right from you to me."

"You stay the hell away from my boys!" he rages, not bothering to watch the level of his voice.

"Now, now, John," I chide. "No need to get testy. Why would I need to do anything to your boys? Life is taking care of them just fine."

The eyebrow above his right eye twitches.

"That Sammy sure has landed himself in a sweet spot, let me tell you," I assure him. "Got himself a couple of doting adoptive parents and a cute, blonde little sister in pigtails. Big house with a pool and everything – everything you'd ever wanted for him. Bit spoiled, though. Maybe a little soft for your liking."

I watch him watching me.

"But then you already knew about that, didn't you?" He's breathing so heavily he's almost panting. "You've been keeping tabs on your boys through your contacts in the outside world. You already know Sammy's livin' it up with the upper classes."

I pause to watch him and note with satisfaction that he's vibrating with tension, suppressing the urge to ask me about Dean. _Demons lie_, his mind is screaming. _Don't ask him, he'll only lie_. But he wants to know. He knows I have news about Dean, news he's been craving for three years since his boy slipped off the radar completely.

"But your friends," I say, resuming my leisurely parade in front of the bars of his cell. "They've lost track of Dean, haven't they? Lost him a few years ago when he ran away after his foster Daddy got a little carried away using him as a punching bag."

I allow myself to smirk, drinking up the man's pain with relish, knowing it will increase tenfold.

"Seems the poor kid made it all the way to New York City but then just disappeared. Didn't call Jim or Bobby or any of your other friends who could've come to his rescue... Or at least, that's what _they_ thought."

"You fucking bastard!" he roars, long past patience and desperate for answers. "Where is he? Where's Dean!"

"Calm down, John," I placate, a grin ghosting my host's face. "You're headed straight for a major coronary if you don't take it easy with the stress. It's a killer, you know."

"Where's. Dean?" he demands icily.

"You'd be proud," I admit, pacing once again. "He's a tough kid – a survivor. I managed to block him for a whole year before he gave up trying to call for help. Poor boy never could figure out why his Daddy's friends didn't care enough about him to come get him, even though he left messages telling them where he was... He'd sneak away to a payphone and make desperate call after desperate call, but no one ever answered. No one ever came."

"I'll kill you!" he hisses, his eyes misting with angry tears. "I swear I will kill you! What did you do to my boy?"

"Me?" I ask, feigning innocence. "Why, _I_ didn't do anything. Quite frankly I'm hurt that you think I'd ever lay my hands on a child, John. Especially one as pretty as Dean." I grin wickedly. "Can't say others didn't, though."

"What?" Cold and clipped, teeth gritting.

"Well like I said, Dean's a survivor," I explain. The sweet rush of anticipation washes over me and I'm high on life at the anguish my words are about to produce. "He knows how to survive using that pretty face of his... that sweet mouth of his... that sweet ass of his... You know they say he sucks cock like an angel from heaven." I cast my eyes upward in mock piety.

Mr. Big-Tough-Hunter is shaking, trembling full-bodied.

"You're lying," he grits out, barely able to form the words.

"'Fraid not. Your boy Deano has gone from being Daddy's little soldier to being Daddy's little whore. But don't worry – I've seen him recently and he's pretty just like his Momma – if you ever get lonely for your wife, he'd make a great substitute. At this point I'm sure he'd spread it for his Daddy and would _like it_."

He's screaming incoherently now, launching himself at the bars and foaming at the mouth with unbridled ire. The other inmates are shouting at the noise, other guards approaching on swift feet. I'm giddy with satisfaction, delighted at how easily I've been able to tear my enemy to shreds with mere words. With the truth.

"Oh calm down," I advise even as I draw back and allow my host's hazel eyes to show through once more. "Your filthy little slut for a son is just fine. Looks like those angels are watching over your boys after all – brought them back together just in the nick of time."

He stops mid-rant to hear whatever else I have to offer him, knowing that our time is up as the other guards approach.

"That's right, John," I say quietly, leaning in close so he can hear me over the shouting voices of approaching correctional officers. "I've got my ear to the ground and am sort of... in tune... with the darker beings of this realm, even the human ones. Seems downright providential that Sammy showed up just when that darkness was about to swallow his big brother whole. So you might want to celebrate – the whore dodged a bullet."

"Why are you telling me this?" Aha—he senses there is a catch.

"Because I want you to know that if the darkness that's chasing him doesn't get him," I promise, "_I_ will. And I want you to think about _that_ while you're staring at these four walls. I want you to think about how much this is all your fault. If you'd gone ahead and grieved like normal people do by losing yourself in the bottle and then finding some new pretty young thing to be your boys' new Mommy, your boys would be living happy right now with you to watch over them. All you had to do was just step back and let nature take its course."

Three other guards run breathlessly to my side but I'm not ready to end our conversation just yet. I release a burst of energy and send all three sprawling into a tangled heap on the floor, unconscious or dead on impact.

"Sammy is _mine_, John. It was arranged even before he was born. Nothing you've done in the past and certainly nothing you will do in the future will change that. It's a done deal. But Dean? You could have saved him. If you'd been a father to him, instead of his Drill Sergeant training him to come after _me_, he would have grown up to have a normal, productive life. _You_ have destroyed him. I want you to think about that while you're stuck in here. The next time you get cornered in the shower I want you to remember that your pretty little Dean has had that and worse – and it's all your fault."

When it comes down to it, breaking a man is easy: you just have to know where to apply the right pressure.

888

Dean was pretty sure he'd died and gone to Hell. Surely being cut up and killed by that John would have been preferable to this. He clung to the toilet bowl and shuddered, trying so hard not to throw up again, putting all his energy into breathing through the shakes and the nausea, and failing miserably when the dry heaves started again. The muscles along his abdomen were sore from hours of exertion, his stomach was empty and churning, and he was hot and cold all over with fevered chills.

When the doctor informed Dean that he had a bad infection he really wasn't kidding. The day after his procedure that infection had really made itself known, along with the painful throbbing in his ass that pounded with intense heat. He wished he could scrub himself clean to make the heat and ache just go away, but there was no scrubbing his kind of dirtiness and infection away. And stool softener or not, attempting to pass anything through his rectum, be it shards of glass or droplets of water, felt like acid tearing him up from the inside. But what made a bad infection and ass-pounding worse was catching some kind of flu when his immune system was already so low, leaving him prostate before the porcelain god for two days of puking and fever and abject misery in a strange house with well-intended people hovering and attempting to dote on him. He just wanted to be _alone_.

Sam and Suzie had both been kept home from school for a day to bond with their new brother, but when it became obvious that Dean's compromised health didn't really allow for much quality time, they'd both been returned to school. Then Suzie had thrown up at school from the same flu Dean had and the two found themselves stuck together in a misery-loves-company scenario.

It was almost funny, really, that things had worked out this way. Dean wondered what the hell would have happened if he had stayed in that hotel room with the John and his bag of death. Had the guy had any intentions of fucking him before he carved him up? If he had, the act alone probably would have killed him, considering the state of Dean's infected rectum. He shuddered at the thought of it, suspecting he probably would have gone into shock or something. And even if he hadn't, this infection was virulent, clinging tenaciously and sapping him of strength and energy. He really wondered if he would have made it long past the weekend with the John's murder plans removed from the equation.

Probably not. Much as Dean hated to admit it, Jane had been right to get him to the doctor as soon as possible. His pride (that word again) was still wounded, and he still couldn't help but feel that it was proof of how vile and dirty he was that she'd felt the need to get a 'clean bill of health' from the doctor before allowing him to enter her house. But it didn't mean that Jane hadn't been right. In fact, taking him to the doctor that day may well have saved his life. Had definitely saved his ass. God he couldn't wait for the swelling and pain to recede.

"Do you want some more crackers?" Jane's voice called quietly from the doorway to the bathroom, making him jump out of his skin with a start.

Dean would have laughed if he didn't feel so much like crying. Crackers? Was she fucking serious? He could barely lift his head, couldn't keep anything down – including the antibiotics for his infection – and the raging fever was sapping the life out of him. No he really, emphatically, did not want crackers.

He settled for rolling his head back and forth in a gesture of 'no' and then heaved at the vertigo the motion caused. Honestly, if he threw up any more he was sure he'd see the discoloured tubing of his own intestines in the toilet bowl.

Jane made some soothing sounds before leaving him alone to his misery. Dean wasn't sure how long he stayed there, perched with his elbows resting on the toilet rim, head resting on his elbows, but he eventually decided it was time to get up. Found it unsettling that his legs didn't seem to want to work, that he couldn't muster the strength to lift himself off the ground. Settled for crawling, dragging his wasted body across the cold, tiled bathroom floor so that he could get back to his bed and his bucket. If he could just sleep, maybe he'd stop puking, and then if he stopped puking the antibiotics would get a chance to work.

His energy failed him completely somewhere between the bathroom and his bed, leaving him lying in a white-limbed heap of fevered heat on the floor. _I'm dying_, he thought. _This stupid infection's killing me!_ And overwhelming regret settled into his bones, thinking of what this would do to Sam, to have found his brother only to have him die in his house a few days later. Dean had been selfish in agreeing to come here, intruding upon his little brother's happiness just so that he could escape his own misery. And where had that gotten him? Now he was dying and his little brother would be traumatized and haunted by this for the rest of his life.

"'M sorry, Sammy," Dean whispered brokenly. "Sorry..."

The darkness swallowed him up and it was hot and all-consuming.

888

"How long did he say he'd be?" Jane asked in a shaky voice as she wiped a cold wet cloth across Dean's fevered brow.

"Maybe twenty minutes," her husband replied. They hovered over the sickbed like two idiots with ants in their pants, feeling useless in their inability to do anything to soothe the poor child's distress.

Dean was an absolute mess. The flu had sapped all of the boy's strength and rendered the few medications he'd been subscribed for his infection utterly useless. His fever spiked at 104.6, and he'd been in and out of consciousness ever since, his green eyes glassy and vacant. His thin frame was drenched in sweat and wracked with chills.

Sam and Suzie had been banned from the sickroom after Sam had discovered his brother's unconscious and unresponsive form on the bedroom floor. Apparently Dean had collapsed after attempting to crawl back to the bed. Peter had called Dr. Simmonds immediately thereafter and the doctor had agreed to make a house call.

Now it was a waiting game. If the fever went any higher they were looking at seizures and possible brain damage. They needed to get him cooled down.

"Dr. Simmonds said we should try putting him in a cool bath," Peter said. "To bring his fever down. We can wait until he gets here, but I think—"

"No, let's do it now," Jane said determinedly, though her voice was shaky. "We can't really afford to waste any time with this. Look at him Pete... he's slipping further away."

And it was true. The poor boy was out of his mind with fever, muttering incoherently to himself, uttering broken apologies to his brother for 'ruining everything' and occasionally pleading for his dad to help him. It broke Jane's heart to see him so unguarded, so vulnerable, so sick. It was as if his body was simply shutting down after years of abuse, and she wondered if maybe a part of Dean hadn't simply let go of the fight when he found his brother, allowing the infection and illness to take hold because he'd finally let his guard down.

Peter padded to the bathroom on socked feet and began running the bath while Jane began tugging at the sweat-drenched clothing. Her heart leapt into her throat when she took in the sight of the assorted bruises in varying shades of healing dotting his pale flesh, and in particular the angry fingerprint-sized marks on his hip peeking beneath his boxer shorts. She could clearly see where a large hand had gripped Dean's hip with greedy fingers and had no doubt that if she investigated beneath his shorts she'd see three more prints running in a trail down his thigh. She shuddered.

Half-waking as his shirt was being tugged over his head, Dean's eyes flew open, anguished and unseeing.

"Noooo..." he moaned breathlessly. "Please... Vin-Vinnie... D-don't."

His voice was barely a whisper as he tossed his head from side to side, one hand lifting shakily from the bed in an attempt to bat her hands away.

"Sh-shhh, Dean," Jane soothed. "It's okay. We're just trying to bring your fever down."

"Please," he begged, gulping for air and licking his dry lips. His eyes were too green and glassy with fever, staring wildly ahead at things Jane couldn't see but could well imagine. Flashback, she thought with a pang deep in her chest. "Please, Vinnie... don't – don't hurt me."

Dean's breathing quickened and his entire body went rigid with tension as he was thrust into a memory he couldn't escape. Tears pooled in his eyes and then sprang free like a Spring shower down pale cheeks.

"Plea-hee-hease," Dean cried, _sobbed_, squirming and flailing uselessly with limbs heavy and too weak to do more than jerk. "M sorry, Vin... sorry..." Head thrashing from side to side. "Stop! Nn-nuh... Don't, please!" His back arched and he cried out in pain, whether remembered or renewed from his current state of distress, Jane couldn't tell. "Nnn... no...nnyahh, please... _hurts_..."

Dean's young face contorted with anguish as he sobbed in feverish despair.

"Dean please," Jane begged, feeling truly desperate to do something. "Come on back to us, Dean. You're safe now... You're with Sam, remember?" She hoped that being reminded of his little brother might help to snap him back and away from the nightmare.

It seemed to have no effect as Dean arched once again, his head digging deeply into the pillow beneath him, his eyes rolling back in his head as his jaw locks. His hands gripped the sheets beneath him and his legs bent at the knees, his toes curling. Peter emerged to announce that the bath is ready just as the trembles began to shake through the teen's frame.

"Seizure!" Peter cried in panic, rushing to the bed to help subdue the boy before his head connected with the headboard behind him. Husband and wife made eye contact for the briefest of moments, sharing matching looks of terror as their newest charge succumbed to the trembling spasms of the seizure.

"Mom, Dad!" Sam's voice called from further down the hall. "Dr. Simmonds is here!"

Sam seemed to understand that time is of the essence – no doubt he'd heard some of the commotion from within in his silent vigil outside the door. From the tone of his voice it ws clear that the boy was terrified for his brother.

The doctor wasted no time with pleasantries, sweeping into the sickroom like an avenging angel. He'd brought a nurse from the clinic with him and between the two of them the situation was handled swiftly and efficiently. Dr. Simmonds and his nurse hefted the now-still teenager from the bed and scurried with him to the bathroom.

"Good," the doctor said absently as he took in the sight of the bathtub, running his fingers briefly through the cool water and nodding his approval.

Everything that happened after was seen through the numb haze of shock. Jane watched in awed detachment as the nurse and doctor gently placed Dean into the tub. The boy gasped awake at the shock of the cold water, flailing a few times before falling limp with exhaustion. Jane wasn't sure how long they left him in there, but by the time they'd drawn him out and dried him off the doctor was nodding in grim satisfaction at the latest read-out on the thermometer.

"Better, but not where I'd like it to be," Dr. Simmonds said. "We'll get him set up with some antibiotics and fluids through an IV – see if that doesn't do the trick."

By the time they were done Dean was still and seemed to be resting peacefully. His fever was down to 102 and the fluids seemed to be helping in bringing some colour back to his skin – or at least it seemed to wash away the gray, death-like pallor that had taken up residence there.

"I think we've seen the worst of it," Dr. Simmonds announced, giving the boy a gentle pat on the shoulder. "He'll sleep soundly now – I've given him a mild sedative to help him get some rest, as well as an anti-nauseant for the vomiting. I imagine he'll be feeling like a new man by tomorrow."

"Thank you Dr. Simmonds," Jane said through the lump in her throat. "If you hadn't come..."

"Nonsense," the man scoffed. "It was no trouble. I'll leave Maria here to keep an eye on him, just to be on the safe side. But I think we'll see a marked improvement tomorrow."

Jane nodded and watched as her husband rounded to the right side of the bed and took a seat next to Dean's legs.

"Is he...?" Peter began, then paused to bite his lip. "The flu wiping him out like this... I understand that his immune system is compromised because of the infection but..." Peter cleared his throat and forced himself to look the doctor in the eye. "It could be something else, couldn't it? It could be HIV or..." He gulped. "AIDS."

Jane couldn't bear to look as the doctor prepared to answer. The possibility of this boy, who had already been through so much for one so young, having a terminal illness that held such stigma with it was simply too much to even fathom.

"No," the man said simply, and Jane could hear the smile in his voice. "We got Dean's test results back this morning – he's HIV negative."

Both Wesleys released explosive breaths.

"He dodged a bullet," Dr. Simmonds said, grinning. "You might want to think about calling him Lucky."

When the doctor had finally left and the nurse Maria had settled into a chair beside Dean's bed, Jane and Peter both allowed themselves to leave Dean's sickroom for a quiet moment alone. It was no surprise to either of them to find Sam seated stubbornly in the hallway, his eyes wide with worry in spite of the gentle smiles and reassurances he'd just received from Dr. Simmonds as the man left.

"Is he okay?" Sam demanded as his parents emerged from the bedroom. "Can I see him?"

"He's resting," Peter replied. "Why don't we give him a few hours – come back and see him after you've had your dinner."

"I don't want dinner. I want to see Dean."

"Dean's fine," Jane assured her young son, smoothing out the shaggy hair on his brow and placing a tender kiss on his cheek. "That flu took a lot out of him but the doctor took good care of him and he's feeling much better now. He just needs to rest and get his strength up."

Sam was hesitant, didn't want to abandon the cause just yet. He pursed his lips and considered his mother's words.

"Just for a minute?" he asked hopefully. "Please Mom? It's just... I just found him, when I didn't even know I had a brother, and now... he's just been so sick... Can't I just go in and see him for a minute? Just a second?"

Jane sighed and pulled her little boy in for a tight hug.

"Okay," she said. "Why don't we go in and say a quick prayer for him, huh? Then we can go have dinner."

Sam grinned and Jane was reminded of just how much she loved him with the warmth and vibrancy of his smile.

888

There were eyes on him. He could feel it, even though his own eyes were glued shut with sleep. The fever was mostly gone, he was glad to note as he shifted under the covers and tried to pry his tired eyes open. And the pain in his head and behind was gone too. _Awesome!_

He cracked one eye open and saw pale blue-gray orbs boring into him. A shy, toothless grin and blonde pigtails blurred in his vision as he tried to focus, cracking the other eye open. He could hear the squeaky singing of a hoard of children chorusing the lines of some god-awful song – sounded like a musical or one of those children's sing-alongs they'd had at the kindergarten he'd attended when he was five.

"Wha—?" Dean grumbled through several tons of phlegm in his throat. "Whazzat?"

Okay, so still a little groggy.

A little-girl giggle and a small body scooting closer to him on the bed.

"You sound funny," the little voice said.

Dean took a deep breath and tried again, forcing his eyes open fully and rubbing at them to clear away the crust that had formed there. When his vision finally cleared he could see Suzie Wesley's face not two inches from his own.

"Jesus!" he exclaimed, falling back onto his pillow with a start.

"You said a bad word!" Suzie intoned in awe. "Not s'posed to take the Lord's name in vain."

She shook her head back and forth to illustrate how wrong swearing really and truly was.

"What're you doin' in here?" Dean asked, lifting his head again to peer at the little girl as she scooched closer yet again.

"Wanna watch 'Annie' with me?" she deflected, pointing ahead.

Dean turned in the direction she was pointing and noted that at some point in his sojourn into fevered hysteria someone had set up a big screen TV and VCR at the far wall of his bedroom. Suzie, it appeared, had taken the liberty of using Dean's bedroom as her own personal theatre system. He could now clearly make out the image on the television of a little redheaded girl tap dancing on a sweeping staircase.

"Oh you gotta be kiddin' me," he moaned, sinking back onto the pillow.

"Sam won't watch it with me," she whined, inching even closer. "Pleeeeease? I'll bring you a popcicle and let you play with Malibu Barbie."

"Oh well, if Malibu Barbie's on the table how can I possibly refuse?" Dean quipped, but his new little sister clearly missed the sarcasm.

"Okay!" she said excitedly, flinging herself from the bed and scrambling from the room as fast as her pajama-clad legs would carry her.

"No wait!" Dean called weakly after her, but she was already gone. "Aw, crap." He got up on wobbly legs and stumbled his way into the bathroom. It felt like he'd been out of it for days, and by the pressure on his bladder, he guessed that maybe he had.

The child returned in record time with two popcicles in hand and a Barbie doll clutched under her armpit. Dean washed his arms and shuffled back to the bed.

"I brought you orange," Suzie said proudly. "It's the best when you're feeling icky."

Dean took the proffered popcicle with quiet thanks and flopped back onto the bed. He frowned when he noticed the pallor of Suzie's cheeks.

"What're you doin' home, anyway?" Dean asked. "Isn't today a school day?"

Suzie slurped at her popcicle and grinned.

"Mommy and Daddy let me stay home again today 'cos I got the flu." Her grin widened with mischief. "I only told a little white lie and said I still felt icky today when maybe I feel okay."

"Maybe?" Dean queried, eyebrows raised slightly. "You mean you're playin' hookie?"

Suzie chuckled and nodded her head, that gleam of pride and mischief playing in her blue-gray eyes.

"How come?" Dean asked.

Suzie shrugged and flopped onto the pillow beside him.

"It's no fun being alone when you're sick," she confided. Then she handed the Barbie doll to Dean with a beaming, hopeful grin. "Me and Barbie will keep you company if you want."

"Thanks," Dean said through the sudden lump in his throat. He wondered when the hell he'd turned into a girl, considering all the crying he'd been doing lately. It was stupid. _Winchesters don't fucking cry_. But he thought maybe he'd go easy on himself just this once, all things considered. He'd kind of been through the ringer, hadn't he? With Vinnie and the Internet pimping, and then being freaked out by that John at the hotel and then finding Sam... and then doctors and infections and being so violently ill he'd turned himself inside out puking... He figured it was okay to be a little overwhelmed, especially after learning that the little girl sharing her favourite toy with him had faked sick on purpose just to spend some time with him, just to keep him company.

"Mommy's gonna make us soup and grilled cheese for lunch," she said sweetly. "And when Sam gets home from school we can watch Star Wars. We have the whole trill... trilly."

"Trilogy?" Dean offered.

"Yeah, that!"

"Sure," Dean said, relaxing into the bed and feeling strangely glad for the added weight of the little girl next to him. "So you wanna tell me what this movie's about?"

Her face lit up as she leaned into him and turned her eyes back to the television.

"That girl right there is Annie," she explained. "She's a orphan – she has no Mommy or Daddy. And she lived in a orphanage with other orphans and they had to clean all the time and only got to eat mush."

"Sounds gross," Dean agreed solemnly.

"But then this lady came to the orphanage and said she wanted a orphan to come live at her boss's house and she picked Annie even though Mrs. Hannigan didn't want her to pick Annie because Miss Hannigan is real real mean."

Dean grinned as Suzie went on to explain the general plot of the story thus far and wondered if she'd chosen this movie because she thought he would identify with it, being parentless and displaced in a similar rags-to-riches fashion.

"And in the end Daddy Warbucks wants Annie to stay and be his daughter forever and Annie loves him and wants him to be her Daddy so she stays and lives with him and the lady and Punjab and Sandy and they live happily ever after."

"Wow," Dean said. "That's pretty awesome for Annie, huh?"

Suzie nodded, turning her sweet face toward Dean with another hopeful smile.

"You could do that too," she said. "And you won't have to clean or anything. And if you have a dog you could bring him to live with us too." The excited glint in her eye revealed how very much she hoped he already had a dog.

"Sorry, kid," he replied. "I don't have a dog."

"But will you stay?"

Dean quirked a grin at the corner of his mouth.

"Do you want me to?"

She nodded enthusiastically.

"Uh-huh!" she said in earnest. "You're way better than Sam, I can tell already. He never lets me come in his room and he said he'd break Malibu Barbie's head off if I went in there again and he won't watch 'Annie' with me even though it's my favourite and I watched 'Ninja Turtles II' with him lots of times. And," she said with emphasis. "You're the handsomest big brother I ever saw and you have yellow hair like me."

Apparently Suzie liked to talk _a lot_. Dean could see how it would annoy his ten year-old brother, but felt himself being soothed by the sound of her prattling. Her unabashed adoration for the big brother who wasn't really her brother and who she hardly knew was also pretty heart-warming and flattering. He knew he didn't deserve it, but couldn't help basking in it anyway.

"I'll think about it," Dean said with a sigh. "But don't even think about asking me to sing and dance like those fruitcakes up there," he pointed at the TV. "Cos it so ain't gonna happen."

Suzie giggled and scooted close enough to be practically nuzzled against his side. It felt nice having her close, like her very presence kept the darkness of his fears and insecurities at bay. That was the cool thing about little kids: they didn't know yet that they were supposed to judge you. They could just take you at face value, which, granted, sucked if you were ugly or fat or deformed but rocked if you were normal and had nothing outward to hide. Dean felt he could get used to this, wouldn't mind putting up with her crappy taste in movies or her incessant chatter, her girlie toys and distinctly feminine sensibilities, if it meant she'd actively seek out his company.

Dean decided then that the Wesleys weren't quite as awful as he'd originally thought. They were now several steps above being not-Satan. After all, they had taken in Sam and given him a good life. And they'd raised Suzie, who was as sweet as kids got. They seemed like decent parents. And they'd had the sense to see that Dean was really sick before he himself even realized it and got him treated before it could kill him. That had to count for something. Best of all, they were letting him live with them so he and Sam could be together, even though they knew what he was and what he'd done.

He still hated them, or at least he hated Jane and Peter. But maybe he didn't hate them quite as much.

**End Notes:**

Just to warn you all, NO the YED isn't going to really be featuring in this story. I just thought him making an appearance to gloat and to spell some nasty truths out to John was kind of necessary, since he DID go out of his way to make sure that young run-away Dean couldn't get in touch with his Dad's hunting friends. And no, Dennis from previous chapters isn't a demon or a supernatural creature. But being the black-hearted monster that he is, Azazel/YED could sense him. I would imagine that Hell keeps tabs on the souls that are working their way downstairs through their evil actions, and Dennis would be no exception.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Notes:

Hi guys! Just trying to set the stage for Dean's return to something of a normal life with the Wesleys. He's got a lot of catching up to do, a lot of things to learn, and as we all know, the road through life is never easy (especially if you're a Winchester). I haven't forgotten about Dennis the Menace, but he's stewing for the time being. Waiting for the right moment, making plans, etc.

In the meantime, we've got Dean attempting to adapt. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

The sudden blaring of the radio alarm clock woke Jane from a sound sleep, startling her awake with a gasp and leaving her breathless with her heart drumming a hole through her chest. Beside her she could see Peter had bolted upright in bed from a matching music-induced heart-attack, panting in sleep-stunned terror at the sudden intrusion of singing on an otherwise peaceful and silent Saturday morning. She looked at the clock and saw that it was 6:03 exactly. Rather a random time to have set the alarm for... and on a Saturday?

"What in the world is that?" Peter said in a huff as he lay back in bed and covered his eyes with an arm draped wearily over his face.

Now that she really looked and listened, it was clear that the radio alarm clock was not the source of the singing. In fact, it was only singing – no instruments, no percussion. Just singing, coming from the wall behind their heads. Jane was beyond puzzled, until she remembered that the en-suite bathroom of Dean's room was directly on the other side of this wall.

"Is that Dean?" she whispered in awe.

A clear, young, masculine voice bellowed through the wall, ever so slightly off key but completely uninhibited and unashamed in its rocker-style warbling.

"When I'm watchin' my TV and a man comes on and tells me how white my shirts can be – but he can't be a man 'cos he doesn't smoke the same cigarettes as me... I can't get no!"

"I believe it is," Peter sighed and then chuckled.

"Satisfaction!"

"What on Earth is he doing up this early?"

"A-hey hey hey! That's what I say!"

"Well," Peter said, turning toward his wife and leaning on an elbow. "He's been sick in bed for most of the week, Jane. I'm guessing he's feeling better and has decided to rejoin the land of the living."

"I can't get no... satisfaction. I can't get no... girlie action. 'Cos I've tried... And I've tried. And I've tried. And I've tried... I can't get no!"

"Singing in the shower?" Jane queried with an arched eyebrow. "Really?"

"I can't get no! When I'm ridin' round the world and I'm doin' this and I'm signin' that and I'm tryin' to meet some girl... who tells me 'Baby baby come back, maybe next week...' 'Cos you see I'm on a losin' streak. I can't get no!"

"He'll wake the whole house!" Jane exclaimed in a loud whisper.

"I imagine he already has," Peter agreed. "Anyway, I say let him. That way Dean gets blamed for waking up Sam and Suzie instead of us. No dragging them kicking and screaming out of bed this morning."

He was grinning mischievously like a five year-old with his hand caught in the cookie jar.

"Well actually Peter, about that," she added hesitantly. "Are you sure we should be going to your parents' place today? I mean... Dean's barely been with us a week and it might be a bit overwhelming for him. Plus, he's only just started feeling better... maybe we should put it off until next weekend?"

"I can't get no! I can't get no! Satisfaction! No satisfaction!"

"I'd say by the sounds of it he's feeling plenty better," her husband assured her. "Besides, you know my mother wants to meet him. She's been pestering me to bring him by all week."

Jane chewed her lip in thought. It just felt too soon. Dean was vulnerable and defensive, broken and yet solidly strong like concrete, and stubborn as a mule. The past week had been rough, especially watching him fall so ill like that. He'd barely ventured out of his room, and even so it had been for the sake of a few very strained, awkward family meals in which he'd mostly just moved his food around on his plate without eating much. Whenever the whole family was together Jane could see the blush of shame painted on his pale cheeks, could see him squirming with himself in his seat with feelings of not belonging and overwhelming gratitude and at the same time indignation and resentment. He didn't _want_ their help but couldn't deny that he _needed_ it. So the idea of bringing Dean to Margaret and Abraham Wesley's house seemed like a very, very bad idea.

"I just think that maybe we should give it some more time," Jane persisted. "Let Dean get used to us before we start parading him around before all and sundry."

Peter's smile faded, a worried and confused frown taking its place on his rounded, boyish features.

"Are you embarrassed of him?" he asked suspiciously.

"What? NO! Of course not! How can you even ask me that?" The accusation stung like a slap to the face. The fact was it wasn't Dean's behaviour she was worried about. Rather, it was what Margaret Wesley's behaviour would draw out of Dean that had her worried.

"I didn't mean it quite like that," Peter said by way of apology. "It's just that... We can't keep him tucked away in here forever, Jane. Sooner or later he's going to have to face the world."

"He's just been through so much, Pete." How could she make him understand her fears and concerns without insulting him? It just felt too soon to bring the traumatized child before the cold and scrutinizing eye of Peter's mother. She wanted Dean to be comfortable with their own nuclear family before he was subjected to that. Not that she didn't love her mother-in-law. She did. But there were so many times when she had to bite her tongue while in the older woman's presence, and she doubted that Dean would show the kind of restraint she'd spent the last fifteen years learning how to cultivate.

"It feels too soon," she insisted. "I know that he's going to have to meet everyone eventually, but it doesn't have to be now."

"Everything will be fine," Peter assured her. "I think the best thing for Dean is to be completely integrated with our family, which means joining us for Saturday breakfast at my parents' house, attending church with us on Sundays, going to school, having dinner at the supper table with the rest of us every night... None of it is what he's used to, but he needs to be included to feel included. I really do think it's for the best, Jane. No doubt he'll resist it, but in the long run he'll see that he belongs. Excluding him to spare him some awkwardness now will only leave him feeling excluded."

Jane folded under her husband's sound logic, silently nodding her acquiescence. But she had a very bad feeling about breakfast.

888

Dean tried very hard not to gawk, he really did, but the sight of that monstrosity of a house, that gigantic castle-mansion-thing was enough to send his jaw dropping to the floor. Peter Wesley's parents were like the freaking Vanderbilts. Their house, if you could call it a house, was huge. It even had those long twisty towery thingies... turrets? It even had _turrets_. And a pool house, Sam had said. Who in the hell had a pool house that was actually a house? As in, fully furnished and stocked. And according to Sam, no one even lived in it.

Dean had been awed when he'd seen it over a week ago, when he and Jane had dropped Sam and Suzie off so Dean could be dragged along for shopping and doctor fun, and it was no less shocking seeing it as they pulled up in front of it for a second time, this time in a silver-gray minivan that disgraced the name of Chevy. A freakin' minivan. Now Dean knew he'd been drop-kicked smack dab in the middle of suburbia, because he'd just been driven to the yuppiest-looking mansion in all of Arizona in a freakin' minivan.

"Well, here we are," Peter said amicably, turning around in his seat to face the three children in the back and grinning broadly at each in turn.

Sam was looking sleepy and grumpy, and just slightly on the bad side of nervous. He'd been sitting the entire ride with his arms folded across his chest and a faint scowl on his young face. Dean wasn't sure what that was all about, but he gathered rather quickly that his little brother wasn't overly fond of the Saturday morning breakfast ritual. If Sam didn't like it it really didn't bode well for Dean.

Suzie, on the other hand, was clearly excited. She chattered the entire way over about all the things that her grandparents had in their house that Dean was sure to love. Of course, she didn't quite understand that the playroom full of toys wouldn't have the same appeal to a fourteen year-old boy as it did to a girl half his age, but he played along and pretended to be interested. Promised he'd allow her to give him the grand tour. The tennis court also held no appeal to him, though the pool he admitted could be fun. Granted, Peter and Jane had a pool too, but theirs wasn't indoors. Dean wondered idly if it ever got cold enough in Phoenix to have to swim indoors.

He wished his palms weren't so sweaty, and that his stomach weren't doing flip-flops, as they made their way to the ornate front door and Peter gave a hearty knock with the large gold knocker. It sucked being nervous, especially in front of people he had no reason to care about making a good impression for. _Screw the Wesleys_, his mind told him, _and screw their parents too_. But the fact was the Wesleys were supposed to be where his home was now, and so their family were kind of his. At the very least he thought it would be nice to not feel like a leper in their mansion. Not to feel like that dumb fuck thief that was supposed to have been released from the cross so that Jesus could take his place. Okay, maybe that was a tad overdramatic. Still... It seemed somehow fitting, given what little Sam had told him about his grandmother and her overt religiosity.

The door opened and Dean stared agape like a fish out of water when they were actually greeted by the sight of a dude in a tux who looked remarkably like Mr. Belvedeer.

"Holy freakin' crap!" he muttered in awe. "A butler? Seriously?"

The Wesleys tittered nervously but made no other attempts at acknowledging Dean's exclamation. They were standing in a wide entrance that had the highest ceilings Dean had ever seen outside of a church. A large marble staircase just off of the foyer led up into oblivion, as far as he could tell – probably to one of the damned towery turret thingies – where an austere, bony-looking woman in her mid-to-late 60s was striding carefully down toward them, her graying hair pulled back into a tight bun, her cold eyes hidden behind a large pair of glasses that were fastened to her long neck by a gold chain.

"Peter, Jane," the woman said in a commanding voice that echoed through the wide, open space. "You're late."

The curt, condemning voice was jarring but matched her cold and harsh appearance perfectly. Dean instantly disliked her.

"Five minutes, Mom," Peter said placidly, reaching out to embrace his mother in a brief hug. Margaret Wesley received the hug with a careful pat and a half-hearted kiss to his cheek that never actually made contact with skin.

"If you can't make it on time I don't know why you bother coming at all," she said off-handedly, then gave Jane a matching no-contact kiss on the cheek.

Dean had only laid eyes on the woman thirty seconds ago and already he could tell that she was distracted in the handing-out of pleasantries. Her eyes ran over all three children with an appraising sense of judgment, calculating and tabulating details on some invisible mental list, resting inevitably on Dean in cool appraisal.

"So this is him?" she asked without emotion or feeling. "He's skinny."

The cold, blunt observation was tossed out nonchalantly, without thought or remorse or consideration for the person whose feelings she'd just callously trampled on. Dean felt his cheeks redden with anger.

"Well, like I told you," Peter cut in right away, hoping to head off Dean's temper by laying a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder and giving it a light squeeze. "Poor Dean here was sick as a dog all week with that nasty flu strain. Remember I told you when I spoke with you on Thursday?"

Margaret paused in her cold scrutiny to give her son an irritated look.

"Yes I remember," she said exasperatedly. "But I don't remember you saying that he was so skinny. The poor child looks like one of those holocaust survivors or starving Ethiopians."

Dean's head actually snapped back in shock as if reeling from an actual physical blow. He knew he'd lost some weight with his recent illness, but he didn't think he was quite that bad. Most of it was to blame on his recent growth spurt, which he hadn't quite filled out into yet, leaving him long-limbed and coltish. But it was obvious she wasn't bothering with his feelings at all.

"Margaret, please," Jane pleaded kindly. "You'll frighten the boy half to death picking at him like that."

"How about we head into the dining room?" Peter suggested, offering up another kindly smile in the hopes of steering the conversation away from Dean altogether. "The kids are starving, isn't that right Suzie?"

The little girl nodded emphatically and took her biggest brother by the hand, leaning heavily against his leg and peering up at him with adoring eyes.

"You can sit by me, okay?" she asked hopefully as she tugged at his arm, causing him to tip one-sidedly toward her.

The family made their way down a rich-looking wood-paneled corridor that opened out into a wide dining room with high, vaulted ceilings. The table was immaculately set with fancy place-settings Dean had only ever seen in restaurants in movies or on TV. He thought about that Julia Roberts movie where she was a hooker eating out with Richard Gere and she had to figure out which forks to use at that schmaltzy restaurant – fitting given his current situation.

"Here, here!" Suzie cried excitedly as she plunked her tiny butt down in one of the chairs around the large chestnut coloured table and giving several more insistent tugs on Dean's arm. "Sit by me! Sit by me!"

"Okay, okay," Dean soothed her. "Calm down, will you? I'm sitting."

He wished he could have put on the brave face for her and had made his smile look like the genuine smile he was so good at faking, but Margaret Wesley was watching him again with those cold eyes of hers and it was making him feel decidedly self-conscious. He wished she had something else to focus on instead of him because her watchful eye was making him feel naked and exposed and entirely too self-aware (possibly even a little paranoid). And he couldn't help but wonder if Peter and Jane had told her anything about him, if they'd told her where he came from and what he'd been up to the past few years. God he hoped not. He couldn't really see why they would, except that they seemed like honest people and maybe they thought both Wesley Seniors deserved to know the truth about what they were letting into their house. Still, he really, really, really hoped not.

"Where's Dad?" Peter asked his mother as he took his own seat on the opposite side of the table from Dean and Suzie.

"Just finishing up an important business call," the woman replied with a heavy sigh of irritation. "You know your father – even when he's supposed to be retired he's still working."

Peter chuckled and set his napkin on his lap. Jane took her place at the table next to her husband, and Sam sat possessively on Dean's other side, giving his little sister the stink-eye for hogging his big brother's attention. Dean couldn't help that joyful feeling of really liking how much both kids wanted to be around him, and even felt the tiniest twinges of satisfaction that each was jealous of the other for the spare moments of time he spent with them separately. Sam, especially, seemed to be possessive of Dean, as though not wanting to share his blood brother with a sister who wasn't really their sister. Dean didn't want to encourage it, but thought it was cute nonetheless.

It didn't take long for Abraham to join the assembled diners at the table and Dean took note of the man's large frame and huge, broad shoulders that hadn't stooped with age in the slightest, in spite of the fact that the man had to be pushing 70. He had a square face and a full head of whitening hair. He seemed the perfect match for the bony, austere woman he called wife: all hard angles and rough edges with very little visible warmth or kindness in his movements or interactions with his family. Not that Dean sensed the same kind of open hostility or disdain that he saw coming at him from Margaret – in fact, Abraham seemed too distracted to care one way or the other about their latest addition to the table.

Maybe Peter was hatched out of an egg, Dean mused as he once again took in the round, boyish face of his foster father. Peter was all softness and warmth and kind eyes and genuine smiles where his parents were more like imitations of people etched out of stone, caricatures of people hewn from rough stone and polished to a fine, shiny finish.

Once Abraham was properly seated at the head of the table, Dean grabbed the nearest fork at his place setting and prepared to dig in. And was stopped by a small hand gripping tightly at his wrist. His eyes followed the hand past a bony arm to meet pleading, almost terrified, warning hazel-brown eyes peeking intently from a shaggy brown fringe of hair.

"Not yet," Sam hissed quietly, shaking his head imperceptibly in warning.

Dean froze, his fingers flinching away from the forbidden fork as if the thing were on fire or were alive with electricity and lying in wait to jolt him. But Margaret, Dean could see, hadn't missed his slip-up. Her eyes darkened and she gave a forbidding scowl before folding her hands in her lap and bowing her head, an action that was immediately mimicked by everyone else around the table.

"We thank you Heavenly Father," she intoned sonorously, "for the meal we are about to receive, and we ask that you continue to bless us by bathing us in your light."

Dean had to fight very hard to stifle the snort of laughter struggling to escape.

"And before we enjoy this bounty you've been so gracious as to bestow, we ask that you watch over us and lead us all from temptation. Save us from sin, O Lord – especially the children, who do not know the blackness they invite into their souls when they give in to temptation."

What was this woman, a fucking priest? She sure as hell talked like one. What was with the 'O Lord' crap, Dean wondered.

"Protect their innocence, Dear Lord," she went on, her voice taking on a hard edge that was impossible to miss. "Protect their innocence from corruption, from sin, and deliver them from the evil that would entice them away from your Glory."

It looked like there was a theme to this pre-breakfast prayer/sermon, Dean noted. Apparently Margaret Wesley was extremely worried about the well being of her grandchildren, who were seriously at risk of being corrupted. Oh. _Oh_.

It was _him_. She was talking about _him_ when she mentioned the evil that was swirling around the two innocent children like some kind of demonic smog. _He_ was the sinner, the tempter, the corrupted child with the blackened soul. And this woman had no reservations whatsoever about using prayer time to take a stab at him, to ostracize him and humiliate him and alienate him from his own little brother and from the little girl who had let her affection for him be known by her obvious enthusiasm for and adoration of him. Through prayer, Margaret was putting him in his place.

So Jane and Peter had definitely filled Margaret and Abraham Wesley in on all the sordid details of Dean's past. _Terrific_.

"We ask that you give us strength to see through falsehoods," she continued, her head still bowed, though Dean had long since abandoned all pretense of praying with this bitch. He could see that Jane's head was peering up from its pious slouch and that his surrogate mother's eyes were wide with shock and anger. Peter, too, seemed to be squirming in his seat.

"Let us see the ugliness beneath the false trappings of beauty," Margaret said. "Let us not be fooled by –"

Dean was just about to tell her where she could shove her pleas for divine intervention where he was concerned when a rough cough resounded from the head of the table, Abraham's clear order for his wife to wrap it up already. Margaret cleared her throat, visibly flustered, and bowed her head contritely, a light flush creeping up her cheeks.

"Amen," she said at last, which was immediately trumpeted by resounding 'Amens' from everyone else at the table.

"Looks delicious," Abraham said with what Dean assumed passed for enthusiasm for the man. "Renee appears to have outdone herself this morning with the crepes. Jane, could you please pass the clotted cream?"

Dean didn't know what clotted cream was but he was positive he wouldn't like it. In fact, in spite of the burning hunger tearing through his empty stomach, he really didn't feel like he had much appetite left. The old bitch's sermon about how he was the scum of the earth had kind of robbed him of his will to live for the moment, and feeding himself felt like a definite pro-active move toward prolonging his wretched life – definitely counter-productive, considering his present feelings of wretchedness. And he hated that he'd let the stupid woman's condescension get to him, because she was nothing to him and shouldn't matter at all.

Maybe it was the wrongness of using prayer to put him down in front of the other children that had stung him so deeply. Or maybe it was that he could see in her eyes that he was nothing – worse than nothing. Her harsh judgment should earn nothing but his scorn and hatred, but the more he thought about it the more he felt those angry feelings turning inwards. After all, it was her house and her table he was sitting at. He was an affront to everything this woman stood for and his presence was being forced upon her by her son and daughter-in-law.

All of these thoughts swam through his head as the conversation around the table picked up. Abraham asked Sam how his school was going, and if he was looking forward to Summer break starting up in the next couple of months. Peter and his father talked about business and finances. Jane and Margaret discussed the Garden Fair and its preparations for August. Dean kept his mouth resolutely shut, poking at his food disinterestedly.

"You lied," Suzie accused next to him just as the whole table fell into one of those awkward lulls that inevitably yields an embarrassing or telling declaration like the one the seven year-old had just uttered.

Dean turned to look at her in confusion as five matching confused faces blinked at him with their lack of understanding.

"I didn't!" Dean defended, feeling the colour rush to his cheeks in anticipation of whatever Margaret was bound to have to say to this news.

"Uh-huh, you did," Suzie insisted, nodding for emphasis and causing her blonde pigtails to swing from side to side.

Dean wanted to plead with her to quit screwin' around because everyone was looking at him, waiting for him to explain whatever lie he'd obviously been caught in, and for the life of him Dean couldn't imagine what it was.

"You said you wouldn't be singing," Suzie explained, grinning impishly and leaning her head back against her chair to peer up at him with playfully gleaming eyes. "And you lied – I heard you this morning when you were singing in the shower."

It started out as nervous laughter, an almost high-pitched tittering that sprang from the back of his throat unbidden as all the eyes around the table watched him in complete bewilderment, not understanding the joke the little girl had just shared with him. Then it evolved into a low rumble that blossomed as it sank from his throat to his belly, shaking him from within and erupting with heartfelt enthusiasm. Dean laughed like he hadn't laughed in a very long time, taking in the sight of the confused faces in comparison with the megawatt smile the grinning seven year-old on his right was casting his way.

"You know what?" Dean said between hearty guffaws. "You're one smart-assed little munchkin."

"Language," Jane warned sharply, but Dean could see the grin playing at the corners of her mouth.

"So Dean," Abraham cut in, the joke and all its humour completely lost on him. "I understand that you've got quite a busy summer ahead of you."

Huh. Well that was news to him. Dean cleared his throat and immediately settled down at the older man's ominous declaration.

"You've got quite a bit of catching up to do if you're to attend Albright Academy in the Fall."

Albright Academy? Dean really didn't like the sound of that. It promised headmasters and uniforms and academics and spoiled rich kids and sounded really, really sucky.

"Um..." Dean was at a loss for words. "I'm not... I mean I haven't..."

"I had to pull a few strings to get them to agree to accepting you," the man said sternly. "So I expect you to buckle down over the next few months and prove to me that I haven't made promises to my friends and associates that can't be kept."

What the hell was he talking about? Were they actually, seriously talking about school? Dean hadn't attended since he was in the sixth grade – and even then he hadn't completed. Oh God, were they going to make him go to elementary school with Sammy? Attend school with his little brother, who was just finishing up fourth grade this year? Oh hell no. No fucking way. Dean would be humiliated being only one grade above his little brother.

"We haven't really had a chance to discuss this with Dean yet, Dad," Peter said, looking apologetically at Dean. "Jane and I were planning on sitting down with him this evening and..."

"Nonsense!" Abraham interrupted. "The tutors will be arriving on Monday to begin working with him – were you planning on waiting until they arrived before you told him?"

"Dad..."

"Young man," Abraham commanded, his eyes on Dean as he pointedly ignored his grown son's protests. "Let me be frank."

Dean gulped and squashed the smart-aleck comment down to his toes.

"I understand that you've had little stability or direction for the past few years," the man said. "I can't imagine you enjoyed it much, either." He gave Dean a searching, pointed look that didn't hold the same kind of judgment that his wife's looks did. But Dean was definitely being sized up.

"I like to think that I'm a good judge of character," Abraham went on. "I see some intelligence in you, some cunning. Strength too, like your brother." He nodded proudly at Sam. "Which is why I expect you to work hard and earn the gift that you've been given."

Dean marveled at the older man's ability to make him quake as only John Winchester had ever been able to do.

"Gift, sir?" Dean dared ask.

"A second chance," the man replied. "If you choose, the world can open at your feet. But you'll have to work for it. You will have to prove yourself time and again through your own endeavours that you're worth our effort. No slacking, no sulking, and no smart-mouthing."

Dean didn't know why his throat was suddenly dry, why it felt hard to breathe, or why he felt the sudden overwhelming urge to stand at attention and salute the man. He figured it was some kind of conditioned response. The man must be channeling his Dad or something.

Instead he nodded dumbly and continued to meet the gaze of the old man before him with something like awe-inspired terror.

"You should be entering the ninth grade?" Abraham queried, then nodded grimly at Dean's answering affirmative nod. "Well then, as I said, you've got a busy summer lined up. I have arranged for some of the best tutors in the State to personally handle your schooling to get you up to speed. If you manage to get caught up you will be attending Albright Academy in September. I can't begin to tell you what a privilege attending such a prestigious school truly is."

"You'll love it!" Sam said, peering up at his big brother with wide, excited eyes. "They've got all sorts of sports teams and after-school groups and activities! And the teachers are awesome! Well, most of them anyway... And we'll be at the same school so we can look out for each other and –"

"Wait a minute," Dean interrupted. "Sam goes to this school too?"

Sam beamed and nodded enthusiastically. Dean's eyes narrowed.

"This isn't like... an all boys' school is it?"

And at that Abraham gave a hearty chuckle, something like relief washing through his large frame.

"No, it's co-ed," he assured Dean, his grim features settling into a grin. "There will be girls there."

Now this was something to consider. Girls at a public school would be awesome enough, but girls at a private school...?

"Girls, as in girls wearing kilts and vests? Those kinds of girls? Dressed up like Catholic school girls-girls?"

Abraham's grin widened.

"That's right," he said.

"Dad," Peter warned. "We don't really want to encourage dating just yet. He's only fourteen and considering..." He stopped himself from saying anything further and cast a guilty look in Dean's direction.

"Nonsense," Abraham scoffed. "You should be relieved the boy is interested in chasing skirts given where he's been. He _could_ be looking at the boys."

Dean felt the swarming of a thousand insects roiling inside his belly and his hands and went hot and cold, tingling with pins and needles as his cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. He tried not to glance at Sam to see if his brother had caught his grandfather's meaning, but Sam was merely looking at the two grown men with a frown of utter confusion.

"Enough!" Margaret choked out in a panicked voice. "We will not be discussing that kind of... _filth_... at this table or in this house!" She turned her cold glare on Dean and he recoiled in anticipation of a snakebite. "You – you should be _ashamed_ of yourself. Barely a week away from your den of sin and already you've got your heart set on corrupting innocent school girls."

"Mom!" Peter admonished, shock evident in his voice.

"That's enough, Margaret," Abraham ordered blandly. "I suggest we all take a few moments to seek the Lord's guidance and forgiveness, and then return to this delicious breakfast."

Everyone's heads bowed for a moment of silent prayer or contemplation, and Dean had to resist the urge to fly from his seat and just run as fast as his legs would carry him. He was coiled and ready to bolt but stopped when Abraham's stern, steady gaze met his. There was a challenge in those eyes, daring him to man up and let the sting of his wife's insults slide. The older man's words replayed in Dean's mind, about a world of opportunities and promises of fulfillment if only Dean was willing to work for it. Was this one of those things Abraham had been talking about?

A subtle nod from the older man, the slightest tightening of his lips in an approving grin, and Dean settled down. The truth was maybe Dean did want this second chance, and maybe, what was more, he needed it. He couldn't go back to where he'd come from, couldn't return to endless nights of being fed upon by ravenous wolves at the dregs of human society, to beatings and violations and humiliation and shame, to fear and self-loathing and loneliness and terror. Here, with the Wesleys, he had at least the security of a warm bed that was his in the privacy of his own room. He had the possibility of a future with school and maybe even friends and something like _normal_. And at least maybe for a little while that normal would be enough. Enough until he was old enough to return to his father's crusade, old enough to recommence his training and take up the mantle of hunter as his father had done, saving people and hunting evil things.

Most of all, though, here Dean had Sam. He could feel his little brother's cat-slanted eyes boring into him, offering comfort for the stings his grandmother had slung at his big brother. Offering love and understanding, even though it was clear that the little boy had no idea what the outburst was actually about. No doubt Sam was chalking the woman's ravings up to her usual fire and brimstone diatribes. Sam was untainted by the truth – didn't know the filth that tarnished his big brother's soul, the cloying, burning feel of hundreds of hands stripping away Dean's innocence until nothing was left but naked ugliness.

So he sucked up his pride and locked it away again. Hell, he'd been doing that for years, hadn't he? If he could let sweaty disgusting pigs fuck him for money, if he could let Vinnie brutalize him and then come back for more, then he could certainly put up with the stupid bitch's sermonizing about him. He could do it for Sam, because Sam needed him. Sam may have the Wesleys paying his room and board, but they didn't know the first thing about real evil – the kind that creeps into babies' nurseries and burns mothers alive on the ceiling. They didn't know about the kind of darkness that coveted his baby brother (and Dean was certain that the monster that killed their mom had been after Sam, had suspected since he was a child that she had died saving the baby). So Dean would suck up his pride, would bury himself in work so that he could stay with the Wesleys and with Sam.

And when he was old enough and strong enough, Dean would become a hunter just like his Dad, and if he could, he'd bring Sam along with him so they could carry on the family business together. But for now he would have to blend in with the Wesleys as best he could and hope he didn't make an ass of himself.

"All right, let's dig in!" Abraham said with enthusiasm.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Notes:**

The first part of this feels a lot like boring exposition stuff, but I needed to establish how Dean's routine worked. It would be a long and boring process to actually go through each step, so we're sort of jumping in the middle of Dean adjusting to school and life with the Wesleys and what not.

There's a lot of angst in this chapter as the Wesleys try to help Dean deal with his past, which inevitably leads to some bad memories resurfacing for Dean.

**You've been forewarned**: this chapter contains some disturbing flashbacks, though not necessarily in the graphic way we've seen thus far. It's more the fear, pain and confusion surrounding the event that gets focus in this. But it involves the rape of an eleven year-old child and is disturbing. _It will also be the last of its kind_.

Next chapter will involve brotherly/sisterly bonding, Dean learning to kick ass, and maybe even some teenage girl-kissing for Dean. Either way, I promise you things will be looking up.

* * *

Being a member of the Wesley household was hard. There were a lot of rules: rules which were, in Dean's opinion, lame-ass and stupid. The no swearing rule seemed to be the most difficult for him to adhere to, considering he'd spent most of his youth with his Dad and his hunter friends, who swore like marines, and then the last few years he'd spent among some of the most foul-mouthed low-lifes of New York City. He didn't see the problem with his vocabulary, really, until he caught Suzie muttering 'sonovabitch' loudly after stubbing her toe. Then he'd conceded defeat and decided to at least attempt to watch his language. The other rules, though, were just plain dumb.

Not going out past 8:00 pm? Were they kidding? He'd been allowed to do whatever the hell he wanted for years, without having to answer to anyone. Suddenly he was on a very tight leash, unable to entertain himself past the hours of his curfew. Curfew? Seriously? What did they think he was going to do, head off to the nearest street corner and offer it up to the first John that came his way? He was done with that. Or maybe they thought he'd get into other kinds of trouble, like the kinds of trouble that involved drugs and orgies or something. Jane had hinted at the fact that they'd detected coke in his blood tests, and though she didn't chastise him for it, she did make it abundantly clear that he would be very, very sorry if he were to bring drugs into their house or if he were caught using them himself. He wondered idly what that threat meant, what they would do to him.

There were junk food rules at the Wesley house as well. They were health nuts, apparently, and the cupboards were bare of the finer things in life, like cookies or chips or soda. He'd kill for a can of Coke, especially with the grueling schedule they'd set him on to get him caught up in school. And there were no fries or cheeseburgers in their house, either.

The work was hard; there were no two ways about it. Dean found himself awake every morning at 7:00 am sharp, up and working by 8:00 and busy some days until 7:00 pm or later. A stream of teachers came and went, giving him private lessons in an office downstairs that was supposed to be Jane's for her 'writing' but that she never used.

Jane supervised the tutoring for the first week or two, remaining close at hand to make sure that Dean was actually exerting himself to the best of his abilities. Dean also suspected she might have been there for his benefit, as a kind of silent bodyguard to help him get past his anxieties about strange adults. Truth was Dean hadn't had many interactions with adults in the last few years, excepting doctors and the Wesleys, that weren't sexual. Every time one of his tutors leaned over his shoulder to take a look at his work, he flinched, expecting a hand to snake down his pants or lips to brush against his neck. He expected it, was certain every time one came too close that the anticipated move was on its way and that it would shatter the illusion that the Wesleys had built for him. He'd even harboured several paranoid fears that Jane and Peter were bringing these 'teachers' by to pimp him out to them, and that it was only a matter of time before one of them revealed the game and made his or her move. He _expected_ it.

But it didn't happen. None of the teachers looked at him with any interest aside from casual detachment or paternal/matronly concern. His Math teacher, for example, was enthusiastic and energetic, but always platonic, almost in a big brotherly sort of way. He was impressed with how quickly Dean picked up on the things he'd already learned from years before, and even more impressed with how new things seemed to stick. Dean had always been good at Math; numbers and equations seemed to speak to him. So the teacher, Mr. Mason, was full of glowing praise and encouragement. In no time Dean was moving from long division to fractions and decimals. Mr. Mason assured him that in a few months he'd be ready to start trinomials, which was grade nine-level stuff.

Science, History and Social Studies were time-consuming but nothing Dean couldn't handle. Science, like Math, was something that came easily to him and so he seemed to breeze through it. History and Social Studies, on the other hand, required full use of his very short attention span. Some of it was interesting to Dean, but most of it wasn't and it sometimes became an exercise in torture just making himself stay awake to pay attention to his lessons. The prolonged hours of endless droning about lost civilizations and ancient wars and geographical nomadic patterns were just plain boring, and more often than not Dean found himself zoning out. But he did try his best and he was at least able to keep up, albeit with a bit of heel-digging from his end.

Mrs. Fells, his English teacher, had the patience of a saint, which was a good thing because Dean's reading was far below the level it should have been. He'd always been a poor reader, having had little time to keep up with it even while he and Sam had been living with their father. Life on the road, looking after his little brother and combat and weapons training with his father, allowed little time for reading. When the poor woman had figured out that Dean was barely literate, she'd been shocked but full of understanding.

So naturally, English took up most of his time. When he wasn't working directly with his teachers Dean spent most of his spare time reading. It was frustrating and made him feel stupid to be sitting with books that were considered easy even for someone Sam's age. But he was determined to get caught up because of all things, being unable to read seemed the most pathetic failing of all. How ashamed would his father be to learn that his fourteen year-old son was practically illiterate? Or his Mom? Granted, he doubted either of them would be particularly proud of the fact that he'd been whoring himself, but at least that had mostly been out of his control. The reading thing made him feel so much more on the fringe of society because _everyone_ could read. People who couldn't read ended up homeless crack addicts or lived in Third World countries. So Dean set himself to work, determined to improve enough to be able to start grade nine English in the Fall. Besides, Mrs. Fells was hot and smelled really, really good and when she smiled at him he felt a strange flutter in his stomach that he adamantly refused to admit, even to himself, meant he had a crush on her.

But what Dean hated most of all, and found most difficult, about living with the Wesleys and enduring their rules and demands, was going to therapy. On that score they'd been absolutely adamant, insisting that he needed to talk to someone to sort out his 'issues.' He'd told them where they could stick it, but found himself hauled into a therapist's office every second Thursday in spite of all his protests and whining and refusals.

"Talk to me about your first experience as a prostitute," the very clinical and professional-looking doctor of psychology asked on his third session. She was a very plain woman, with sort of mannish features, mousy brown hair twisted up into some kind of messy bun and wire-rimmed glasses slightly askew on her face. Dean often found himself staring at the well-worn lines in her face and wondering whether it was primarily laughter or tears that had etched those lines into her aging flesh.

"Why?" he asked with a scowl. Deflecting questions by asking questions was his preferred method of avoiding talking about his 'feelings.' He'd sooner stick a coat hanger in his eye than talk to this woman about any of this stuff, let alone that particular nightmare. He'd worked good and hard to push it as far from his memory as he possibly could.

"Does it upset you to talk about it?" Dr. Oxley queried, her clipboard poised on her lap as she leaned forward slightly in her seat.

Dean just gave her a stony look but said nothing.

"How old were you?" she pressed.

"I'm new to the whole therapy thing," Dean admitted with a sigh, "But aren't these stupid confessionals supposed to be, like, voluntary and spontaneous? Doesn't it not work when you're dragging information out of me like an interrogation?"

"If I didn't ask the questions, would you volunteer the information?"

Dean grinned triumphantly. "Nope."

"Does it upset you to talk about these things?"

Dean revisited the stony look, adding narrowed eyes for added emphasis. "What the hell do you think?"

"I think that you've been through a lot," she admitted, shifting in her seat to cross her legs. "And I think that you developed the best mechanisms you could at the time to get through some truly horrific experiences."

Dean shrugged. "Yeah, so? Everyone's got a sob story. I'm still here. And I'm obviously fine."

"So fine that you had to turn to cocaine to make yourself feel better?" she suggested, pen poised over the clipboard.

"I dabbled," Dean said defensively. "You try letting some disgusting fuck shove his cock up your ass every night and see if you don't need to take the edge off every once in a while."

So much for keeping a handle on his swearing. He watched in irritation as the pen scribbled furiously on the page.

"How does it make you feel?" she asked, as if on the verge of a major break-through or something, "to have had to do that? Did you feel like your life was out of your control?"

Dean snorted a laugh. "Lady, where the hell did you get that degree of yours? _Nothing_ about my life was under my control. I did what I had to do just so I could stay alive, even though most of the time I was worried that this next time was going to be my last, that some pervy John was gonna strangle me or murder me just for the heck of it."

"Like what happened to you recently?" she pressed. "With the injuries you sustained just before you came to live with Jane and Peter? I understand you suffered a very brutal attack."

"I doubt you understand _anything_," Dean hissed, hating himself for the tears he could feel welling up in his eyes. He did not like thinking about what happened on the kitchen floor that day. It ranked way up there with the first time he'd been forced to... _Not thinking about that, either_.

"Tell me about what happened," she urged. "I know it hurts to talk about it, but getting these things off your chest can help kick-start the healing process."

"I thought that's what meds were for," Dean deadpanned.

"What happened before you came to live with Jane and Peter?" she asked softly. "Somebody hurt you very badly. I want you to tell me about that."

Dean averted his gaze and stared at the wall.

"There's nothing to tell," he replied resolutely, though a few tears had broken free from the prison of his eyes. "It's over now. Doc patched me up. End of story."

"Was it someone you knew?" Dr. Oxley pressed kindly. "Or one of your clients? A stranger?"

His stupid fucking lip was trembling and his throat felt like it was closing off. He'd sworn he wasn't going to open up about a damned thing, that he'd be a steel trap that was rusted shut. Instead he was about a hair's breadth away from blubbering like a baby.

"No," he whispered, sucking in a breath to try to steady himself as more tears sneaked loose. "It was... Vinnie. He – I – we kind of lived together, I guess."

"Was he your boyfriend?"

Dean reared back as though he'd been punched. "NO!" he gasped, horrified at the very idea. "Fuck no! I'm not..." He heaved a sigh. "I fucked guys for money but I'm not gay, okay? It was just... I didn't really have a choice!"

"You always have a choice, Dean," she said quietly. "At the time it might have felt like there was no way out, that prostitution was the only alternative, but there are other ways."

"You don't understand!" Dean nearly screamed, feeling ashamed and indignant at the same time. He _hadn't_ had a choice. There was no getting out, no one to help him or save him. He'd been forced...

"I couldn't get away!" he said through gritted teeth. "I was young and I was stupid and they took me... Lined up some rich dude who was willing to pay a lot of money to fuck a virgin."

Tears were spilling freely now, running unchecked and unnoticed down his cheeks.

"Who took you?" the doctor asked.

"I don't know," Dean admitted, anguished. "Some underground group who work in the sex trade..., run by a guy named Byron. They, uh... they kind of _sell_ people. They wouldn't let me leave – kept me locked up for months, bringing in new customers who would come and..." He gulped and tried to suppress a sob at the horrible memories of those months when he'd first been forced into this life.

"I _didn't_ have a choice," he repeated adamantly, gritting his teeth through the pain throbbing in his heart. "They used me and hurt me until it was obvious that I was damaged and no one wanted to pay the kind of rates they were asking. Then they tossed me out on the streets and left me with a pimp who beat me whenever I tried to leave... I remember a few times I managed to sneak away and tried calling some of my Dad's friends to help me, but I couldn't ever get a hold of anyone. I told them where I was but no one came looking."

He wished he could stop talking, stop remembering, but the floodgates had been opened and his own pain was tearing him open on the inside, hemorrhaging from the inside.

"Nobody came," he whispered brokenly. "I tried to find my way out but... the streets just kept pulling me back. After a while I just sort of... gave up. I was already too dirty and damaged to ever be normal again anyway."

God, his chest hurt with the effort of breathing. He wished he could carve the pain out, dig deep into his chest and just empty it out until there was nothing but an empty cavity left.

"But I didn't choose this, I swear!" he insisted, almost whimpering. "I would never choose... I'm not _that_ bad. Please tell Peter and Jane that I never wanted to be this way."

It was a mystery to him why he suddenly cared what Peter and Jane thought about him, but the idea that he had ever voluntarily opted to prostitute himself, that he would ever have decided to offer up his body at age eleven to hungry men for meager earnings, was sickening to him. It was unbearable. They could think what they wanted of him, but he couldn't bear them thinking that he'd chosen to sully himself by making himself a bitch for New York City's most depraved individuals.

"Okay, Dean," Dr. Oxley whispered, holding her hand out and gripping the arm of his chair in imitation of giving his hand a comforting squeeze. "Deep breaths, now. That's it, deep breaths. You're okay."

"I wasn't born a whore, I swear!" Dean went on, half-hysterical. "They _made_ me one. They r-raped me and traded me like I was some kind of... set of golf clubs or something."

"Sh-shhh," the doctor cooed. "You're okay. It's over now."

She handed Dean a Kleenex, which he stubbornly ignored, opting instead to wipe his eyes on his sleeve defiantly.

"Dean, one of the things I hope you'll come to learn through our sessions is that the things that have happened to you are in your past." Her voice was calming and smooth and Dean found himself daring to meet her gaze. Her lined eyes were sad and almost dewy with tears, but there was strength and confidence in her looks, too, which she seemed to be sharing with him through her eyes.

"You didn't choose to sell your body," she acceded gently. "But even if you had – wait, please, let me finish – even if you had, it's nothing to be ashamed of. What happened to you is not your fault. None of it. The people who hurt you and who raped you are responsible for the evil of their own actions. _You_ are not. And the people you sold yourself to were adults, Dean, adults who took advantage of a child in a desperate situation. They should have been helping you, not using you."

Dean sniffed and nodded, finding a spot on the floor to stare at so he could try to compose himself. Wow. He really hadn't expected to break down like this, spilling his guts out to some hired shrink. It was weak and stupid, but oddly therapeutic. It felt good to be able to tell her how much he'd fought against it back when it all started, to be able to really argue his case so that she'd understand that he wasn't as dirty and depraved as everyone thought he was. He didn't know why it should make a difference, but it did. Margaret's Saturday morning sermons were obviously getting to him.

"I think we'll stop here for today," the doctor said. "But eventually I would like you to tell me a bit about what you went through in those first few months, and also about when Vincent attacked you. You need to talk about them so you can... purge them, if you will. Release them through the telling and then let them go. Do you think you can do that?"

The world felt so heavy Dean wondered how it was that he could still hold his head up. He could feel it pressing down on him, weighing him down and crushing his spine, stooping his shoulders. Did life ever get any easier, he wondered?

"I don't know," he admitted in a whisper. "I don't... I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to think about what happened... _then_."

"I know," she soothed. "But when you talk about it you're going to let it go," she assured him. "I'm going to help you work on that so that you can leave those memories behind, work through your feelings, instead of burying them deep inside."

It all sounded so After School Special that Dean had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. She really didn't get that he didn't want to go there. Or maybe she did and just didn't care.

"Whatever," he mumbled, pulling his walls and barriers back in place and schooling his face back into that cool mask of indifference.

When he finally left Dr. Oxley's office Dean could see that the therapist looked very sad. _Try living it_, Dean thought wryly, but kept his feelings in check so as not to get emotional again.

The doctor gave a heavy sigh as she made her way to the waiting room to meet with Mr. and Mrs. Wesley to give them a brief update on how their sessions had been going. Dean was asked to wait while the adults retreated to the privacy of Oxley's office.

"How is he doing?" Mr. Wesley asked nervously, taking one of his wife's hands in his and holding it tightly against his lap.

"We made some real progress today," the doctor admitted. "I believe he may be close to opening up about some of the traumatic memories he's been holding onto. There's a real opportunity here for him to heal and eventually move forward."

The boy's guardians looked visibly relieved, smiling at each other warmly.

"What would you like us to do?" Mrs. Wesley asked hopefully. It was always encouraging when the parents were looking to help, when they wanted to know what they could do to facilitate forward momentum.

"At this point I believe Dean needs to feel like a normal boy his age," Oxley instructed. "His past may be vastly different than what most teenagers have experienced, but at the end of the day he's still a fourteen year-old boy, and a boy who needs to get back into living like a fourteen year-old boy. He needs to go out – and not just to visit your parents' house for Saturday breakfast, or church on Sundays. He needs to socialize with others his age. He needs to do something other than school work."

"A youth group, maybe?" Peter suggested.

Dr. Oxley grimaced. "You can try it," she said skeptically. "But I can't see someone like Dean being very open to something like that. The affiliations with the church alone would have him digging in his heels. No, what I was thinking was that perhaps you could find a way to introduce him to some of the local kids. Maybe even see if you could put him in touch with some people he'll be attending school with in the Fall."

"We can do that," Jane assured her. "Alice Anderson's daughters are about Dean's age – Jamie would be, what, sixteen? And Emma I think is fourteen? And Gordon Patterson's boy... Daniel, I think? He must be around Dean's age. Lives just down the road."

"Good," the doctor said. "I also think you should consider putting Dean into some kind of sport or self-defense class. From what I've read from his teachers' evaluations thus far, Dean seems to have a lot of excess energy that he's not really getting the opportunity to burn off, and it's manifesting in ADD-like behaviour."

When both Wesleys gave the doctor blank, uncomprehending looks, Oxley explained. "Quite frankly, he's bored. He's behaving _now_ because he's still testing the waters, afraid that you'll reject him and take him away from his brother if he crosses a line. But eventually he's going to blow, either from suppressed emotions or boredom or both, and when he does it could manifest in any number of ways – and they're most likely to involve habits he learned while he was on the streets."

Peter Wesley gulped anxiously.

"Well we certainly don't want that," he admitted. "Maybe we could put him in Tae Kwon Do with Sam? That would be something they could do together, and he'd be less likely to pretend to hate it if it meant he could spend time with his little brother."

"He's a good kid," Jane said softly, even proudly. "At first he was so subdued, like a ghost in the house – except when he was singing in the shower or shooting his mouth off," she added with a rueful laugh. "But after everything he's been through, all the evil he's seen and had done to him, he still seems so..."

"Innocent," Peter supplied quietly.

"You should see him with Sam and Suzie," Jane went on. "All his rough edges soften around those two. He'll play games with them, even though I know he must be bored to tears – especially playing some of Suzie's games with her. And he's very protective of them. Both Suzie and Sam are head over heels for him."

"That's good," Dr. Oxley said, encouraged by what she was hearing. "Dean needs things that keep him anchored, things that make him happy and that keep him grounded here in your household. It will make him much less likely to run away when he hits a rough patch."

"Run away?" Peter asked, gulping again. "You don't really think he would...? I mean, after all the horrors he's seen, he couldn't possibly be willing to return to it?"

The doctor sighed and leaned forward with her elbows on the desk.

"People often return to what they know," she said sadly. "Even when what they know is a nightmare. There's an expression: 'Better the devil you know...' If he felt threatened enough, I believe he would be a serious flight risk. Which is why having close ties with your son and daughter is so important. It gives him something to hold onto so that leaving is less appealing when times get rough."

"Okay," Jane whispered, and the doctor could see that her heart was probably beating faster than its normal steady rhythm as a new fear spiked through her chest. She could see it on both Wesleys, the sudden urge to panic and bolt through the door to find Dean in the waiting room and hold him close so he couldn't make good on the sudden threat of running away.

"Enroll him in the Tae Kwon Do with his brother," Oxley instructed. "That sounds like a really healthy outlet for his energy and aggression, as well as a way for him to bond with his brother. Dean mentioned that when he was younger his father had taught him some fighting techniques, so it's likely he'd be willing to participate. And if he's good at it, it could help to build his self-esteem. He needs that now."

"Okay," Jane said again, nodding emphatically. "Okay. Whatever it takes."

888

Dean felt the first twinges of panic grip him when he realized where he was. His hands fisted in the sheets, which were tangled around him, his head rolling heavily from side to side as he fought against what he was seeing. Finding himself suddenly there again, young and afraid and knowing what was going to happen because he'd already lived it. Had vowed he'd never revisit the memory. But sleep can be a cruel playmate and she was showing no mercy to the boy as he twitched and moaned in a desperate attempt to pull himself out of the land of dreams – nightmares – and into the waking world.

They'd left him alone and told him to wait. He was scared. Really scared. The kind of scared that made him feel like he had to pee, made him wish he'd asked to go to the bathroom before they brought him here. Now he was alone in a strange bedroom with nothing to do but worry about what was going to happen next. They wouldn't tell him anything – they never did. They laughed at him and gave him strange, hungry looks. One of them had forced a hand down his pants, forcing a finger inside him and exclaiming with a triumphant cry of, 'We've found a ripe cherry, boys!' His arms were dotted with fingerprint bruises from being dragged from one place to another, from room to room, into a big dark car, down the hall of some out-of-the-way no-tell motel that had obviously seen better days.

_Someone was supposed to come get him. 'Be a good boy and do whatever the nice man wants,' he'd been told. He didn't really know what that meant, but it made his insides go cold. He sat on the bed and ran his palms along the faded denim of his jeans, noticing idly how dirty they looked. _Well no wonder there, genius_. It was the only outfit he had, though his captors gave him fresh, clean underwear to change into every day. He hadn't bathed in over a week and was starting to feel kind of ripe, even for an eleven year-old._

_Just then the door opened and a man walked in. He was normal looking, if a little on the pudgy side. Maybe a bit shorter than Dad, and in flabbier shape, less definition to his muscles. Dark hair and eyes like Dad, but his smile was frightening and predatory. The way he looked at Dean made him squirm._

"Well aren't you a sweet thing?" the man whispered as he approached. "They said you were a pretty little boy but I didn't expect... God. You're breathtaking." And he sounded breathless when he said it, too, his eyes raking over every inch of Dean in unparalleled delight.

_He loosened the tie at his neck and sat down on the bed beside Dean. He was wearing an expensive-looking black suit with crisp edges and had shiny black shoes. Dean wasn't sure what he was supposed to do, what the man wanted, but he was scared. Everything in him told him this was _wrongwrongwrong_ and to _runawayrightthefucknow!_ But he sat in stunned fear and merely waited for the man to give him some kind of hint as to what he was doing here._

_A large hand reached out to brush the floppy blonde locks from his forehead and he flinched away._

"_Little rough around the edges, aren't you boy?"_

_Dean glared._

"_My name's Dean, asshole."_

_A deep chuckle and a satisfied sigh, and the hand reached out to brush his hair again._

"_And feisty, too." The man smiled. "I like that." His dark eyes bore into Dean's hazel-green, searching and alighting on something. "I'd like you to do something for me, Dean, if that's okay."_

"_What?" Dean asked skeptically. _

"_It's real simple," he said reassuringly. "Just head on into the bathroom over there," he indicated by pointing at the bathroom near the door to the hotel room. "Hop in the bath and get yourself cleaned up, huh? Everything you need is already in there. I've even set out fresh clothes for you and everything."_

_Dean's insides were twisting in knots, vague warnings about strangers and bad touches screaming through his head._

"_And what will you be doing?" he dared ask._

"_I'll just be waiting out here," the man assured him. "I promise." And he made a motion of crossing his heart, as if Dean were some kind of girl and gave a shit about those kinds of meaningless gestures._

"_Umm... okay," Dean agreed hesitantly. The part of him that had just been thinking longingly of having a shower was suddenly as ill at ease with this development as the rest of him. It felt wrong. The warnings were blaring in his skull telling him to get the hell out of there before something terrible happened. But he didn't know what he could do to get himself out of it. The strange men, Byron and his boys, who had taken him were at the motel, watching and waiting for him to do whatever it was they'd brought him here to do. They'd rented the rooms on either side, in fact, so that they could keep an eye on things. They wouldn't let him leave, that was certain – in fact they'd promised to kill him if he tried. He figured a bath wouldn't be so bad, and he could lock the door._

_Ten minutes later he was fresh and cleaned, his blonde hair dripping wet but no longer with that dirty layer of filth from days of neglect. His skin felt fresh and clean, despite the tingling discomfort that prickled along the top layer in warning. Dean wondered what would happen if he just stayed in the bathroom and never came out._

_A quiet rap on the door answered his question._

"_Dean?" the man called from outside. "Would you come out now please?"_

_Panic flooded him as he pulled on the slightly baggy t-shirt that had been left folded for him, along with clean underwear and jogging pants pants. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen now, and he found himself suddenly terrified. He wished there was a window in the bathroom that he could sneak out of, like they did in the movies._

"_Um... just a minute," he squeaked, gulping past his fear. "I'm not... not quite ready yet."_

_He wanted to leave. Everything was all wrong and he didn't want to find out what the man wanted. He knew he wouldn't like it and that it would be bad._

"_Dean?" the man pressed, an edge to his voice now. "Open the door. Now." _

Oh god oh god oh god!_ He didn't want to open the door. Stumbling on trembling legs, Dean walked backwards, away from the door, trying to put as much space between himself and the man as possible. He gasped when his back hit the wall and there was nowhere else for him to go. Nowhere for him to hide. What he wouldn't give for his favourite sawed-off right now..._

"_Open the goddamned door now!" the man barked._

_Dean bit his bottom lip and breathed deeply through his nostrils. _Don't panic_, he thought. _Find a way out. Find some kind of weapon. Get out of here and run like hell_._

_There was a click and the bathroom door opened with a silent creak. He could clearly see the man standing in the doorway, a mauled coat hanger gripped tightly in a white-knuckled fist. The man tossed the hanger aside and strode purposefully into the bathroom, his face dark like a thundercloud. He stalked toward Dean angrily, as though ready to strike him, but paused when he saw the child cowering against the wall near the toilet._

"_Hey, hey," he said, suddenly all calmness and dripping with honey. "What's the matter, huh? I'm not going to hurt you."_

_Dean wasn't convinced. Not three seconds ago the bastard had been screaming at him to open the goddamned door. Dean knew that this kind caring bullshit was an act. He'd been around enough bullshitters in his life – his father being number one – and knew insincerity when he saw it. And as far as lying went, this guy sucked at it._

"_Get the hell away from me," Dean spat, inching further away until he was nearly behind the toilet, squeezed like a sardine into the corner of the wall. _

_A large meaty fist grabbed the collar of his shirt and lifted him effortlessly from his hiding place. He kicked and punched like a wildcat, scratching and biting at anything he could reach in an effort to get away. As they were approaching the bed he jabbed a finger expertly into the man's eye, causing him to yelp in pain and release his hold on Dean. Dean fell to the floor with a thud, cracking his tailbone painfully._

"_Sonovabitch!" he moaned, pausing only long enough to rub regretfully at his throbbing backside before scrambling away on knobby knees toward the door. A fist in his hair abruptly ended his escape._

"_Not so fast, little man!" the man spat, all pleasantries and pretenses of kindness abandoned. "I'm going to get what I paid for. Now hold still!"_

_An arm wrapped around his neck and pulled him in close to the man's body so that his back was pressed firmly against the man's chest. He could feel something hard at the man's groin poking into his back._

"_Get offa me!" Dean snarled, jabbing the man in the thigh with a bony elbow and attempting to wriggle free. The man tightened his hold around his neck and the air abruptly cut off altogether. Dean felt himself being lifted and was promptly thrown bodily upon the bed, a large body thumping on top of him._

"_Get off!" he cried again, small fists striking at hardened flesh with as much impact as flies buzzing around a horse's rump. The backhand that sent him sprawling onto his back had him seeing stars._

_His t-shirt was torn from him effortlessly but Dean barely noticed, so intent was he on trying to break free of the monstrous form above him. He punched and scratched and clawed, finally eliciting a hiss of pain from his attacker, which earned him a sucker-punch to the gut that left him breathless. Hands at the waistband of his jogging pants pulled them off his hips in one fluid motion, followed by his underwear. Dean tried to kick at the man but his legs were completely pinned by the crushing weight of the man's knees. The bruising the next day promised to be spectacular._

"_Please, don't!" Dean cried, ashamed and terrified of being suddenly naked in front of a strange man. "I'll kill you you fucking sonovabitch!"_

_Another backhand to the face had everything dimming to black at the edges. Dean struggled to remain conscious as the man looming over him fumbled with his belt and slid the black dress pants down his own hips, kicking them eagerly to the floor and then repeating the procedure with his boxer shorts. Dean could see through the numb haze of panic and near-unconsciousness that the man's penis was large and standing up straight and hard as a rock._

"_No nonono!" Dean pleaded, tears welling in his eyes now. He'd heard a thing or two from the boys at school about sex, but had always understood it to be something that happened between a man and a woman. This was new, and confusing. And fucking _awful_._

_Next thing he knew he was being flipped onto his stomach, his face shoved forcefully into the pillow as the man pried his legs apart with his large knees. The man spat in his hands and Dean squirmed to get free but could barely move underneath the larger man's bulk. Then he felt a finger enter him, and there was no going back. He couldn't stop and rewind. This awful thing was going to happen and he couldn't stop it... _

I'm sorry, Mommy_, he thought desperately, staring at nothing as tears glided down fever-hot cheeks. _Sorry, Dad.

Dean woke with a gasp.

The memory burned through him, ghost touches tingling up his spine at the feel of the man's tongue on his neck, between his shoulder blades, fingers digging into his hips, jackhammer thrusting through nerve-endings raw with fiery hot pain as he begged and pleaded for it to stop. He might as well have been there all over again, living through it a second time, for how real it felt, how raw and wrong it felt. And he remembered the feeling of his soul receding into a dark place inside him, hemorrhaging pain and confusion so deep he choked and drowned on his own blood.

He remembered feeling, in that moment when he shifted back into a sitting position, naked and raw on the bed as the man's cum oozed onto the sheets beneath him, that his body had been mutilated and transformed into something else. That he'd become something else, and that anyone looking at him would know immediately what he was. Worthless. Dirty. Used.

Dean had wished that he could set himself on fire and burn up like his mother did. Then this hideous body would be gone and his spirit would be clean. He just wanted to be clean.

Now, three years later, Dean was pretty sure that all the scrubbing in the world wouldn't wipe his spots away. That Macbeth bitch couldn't do it and she hadn't done anything nearly as horrible and disgusting as he'd done.

Dean wiped a stray tear off his cheek and rearranged the tangled sheets around his body and decided that in the morning he'd tell Jane and Peter he wouldn't be going to therapy anymore, and that they could happily go fuck themselves if they had a problem with it. Talking about this shit wasn't helping – was only bringing it all back. And Dean would be damned if he'd relive things that had been unbearable the first time around.

He didn't fall back asleep after his head hit the pillow, since he was too busy trying not to relive the memory he'd worked so hard to repress.

**End Notes:**

Still haven't forgotten about Dennis. He's stewing and planning and will be making an appearance later. We want Dean to adapt and ajust first, yes? And for those of you who are hoping to see John reunited with his boys, there will definitely be some Papa Winchester action coming -- but again, that's later. I want Dean to get some serious healing time so that he's functional when it's time to rejoin his father for the hunt.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Notes:**

Okay, sorry for the wait, ladies. As recompense, I give you super-long chapter! We've got all sorts of goodness in this chappie: brotherly fun, summer hijinks and some ooh-lala! Warnings for under-aged drinking and sexiness.

Also, this is completely unbeta'ed and slightly rushed, so I apologize for any glaring errors. I just wanted to get this chapter out before I went to bed. Hope you enjoy it! As always, reviews are greatly appreciated. If there's anything you're dying to see, drop me a line and I'll consider it!

* * *

Chapter 9

_June 29__th__, 2003_

Having Dean for a big brother was pretty cool. Sam had only ever had a little sister, and most of the time she annoyed the crap out of him (though deep down he really loved her). But Dean was... well, he was something different. Once the initial shock of being in a strange place with people he didn't know wore off, Dean pretty much made himself at home. He was guarded in ways Sam imagined would never go away, no matter how long he'd been with the Wesleys. It just seemed to be a part of who he was, an attribute that made Dean Dean. To all appearances he was an open book: jovial, friendly, charming, boisterous and lively. But underneath it all there were walls, deep, thick, impregnable walls that masked a lot of dark stuff underneath that Sam only ever glimpsed once in a while in those mossy green eyes. Even so, though, whatever demons Dean was hiding or burying inside, he was a lot of fun. And he somehow managed to make every day new and exciting.

Going to school had always been something Sam looked forward to. Some people called him a geek, but he liked to think of himself as driven. It was hard to feel like you were good at anything or had any merit as a person when you had everything handed to you – and Sam wanted more than anything to be able to prove that he could be strong and independent on his own. At ten years old, that was turning out to be a not-so-easy thing to do.

So he applied himself and worked hard and planned on some day making his way in the world under his own steam. Then Peter and Jane would have something to be truly proud of – and if he'd done really well, maybe even his grandparents would be proud too. Lord knew it took a lot to make them proud.

But since Dean came along school became something else too. Every day Sam had more than just classes to look forward to. Along with the satisfaction he always got from tackling a difficult subject and mastering it, Sam also got the added treat of daily Dean surprises booby-trapped in his school bag, books, and lunch. His big brother was constantly finding new ways to surprise and amuse him, from randomly scrawled messages along the margins of his books with outlandish commentary of what Dean felt the poems Sam was studying were _really_ about, to ridiculous items stashed inside his books, like one red sock on one occasion and a pair of wax lips on another. The sheer absurdity of the lengths Dean would go to to entertain him at school kept the ten year-old chuckling through most of his classes, thinking about how much he couldn't wait until Dean started school with him so he could pay him back with fake love notes and rubber chickens in his locker. And with school now ended and the summer vacation in full swing, Sam could only wonder what new tricks his big brother would be up to.

Dean was a living bundle of energy, always moving, always joking or talking or singing his stupid classic rock songs. Whenever they had free time Dean liked to fill it with activity, pushing Sam to spar with him so he could practice his Tae Kwon Do or urging Sam to come out and swim in the pool with him. When he'd learned that Sam and Jason were making a fort in the woods in the back yard, Dean was all over it, joining them outside to take a look at what they'd accomplished so far (which was nothing at all) and drawing up plans and taking measurements so that he could help them build it. In the two months since Dean arrived in Phoenix, they had put together an actual solid frame and lain the floorboards for what promised to be a seriously awesome 'No Girls Allowed' club house. Dean said it was gonna be kick-ass. Jason was in awe of Dean.

And it turned out Dean was a much better babysitter than that old bat Deidre from the Neighborhood Watch. Mom and Dad had finally decided to take a night off to themselves and had left Dean in charge – no babysitters, no chaperones, no one monitor them or keep them in line – except Dean. It was probably a very _bad_ idea. It was also the most fun Sam had had in years.

"What are you doing?" he found himself asking, shouting over the music blaring from the stereo in the living room.

Dean was standing at the top of the stairs with a very determined look on his face, a dismantled skateboard in one hand and a couple of pillows gripped tightly in the other. Whatever plan he was cooking up it had 'disaster' written all over it.

"Surfing," Dean replied casually, distractedly, as his keen eyes swept in a raptor's gaze over the landing many steps down. "Just trying to decide where best to put this stuff so I don't break anything."

He set the skateboard on the floor and made his way down the stairs with the pillows in hand. Tossing them casually to the floor, he then turned and trudged determinedly back up the stairs.

"Where're you going?" Sam asked.

"Hang on." Dean was obviously distracted, his plan taking shape in his mind in ways only he could see. He hurried down the hall into Mom and Dad's room and emerged less than a minute later with his arms completely laden with pillows and bedding.

"What're you doing?" Sam demanded. "That's Mom and Dad's duvet!"

"Relax, Sammy. I'll put it back."

"Can I go surfing too?" Suzie asked from her spot at the top of the stairs, her little legs swinging through the rails of the banister.

"NO!" Dean and Sam answered in unison.

Suzie sulked but did not reply.

"We got any packing tape or duct tape?" Dean asked, pursing his lips hopefully.

"Dean, seriously, what are you doing?" Sam asked, feeling desperate now. Much as he enjoyed his brother's antics, this surfing stunt looked dangerous.

"Jesus, chill out, will you?" and Dean was grinning that cocksure grin of his that made Sam want to give in and do whatever he asked. "It's gonna be awesome. You'll see. I'm just gonna set up some padding along the landing."

Sam gulped at the twitter of excitement bubbling up in his belly and decided to ignore that voice in his head that was screaming at him that his brother was about to do something colossally stupid and dangerous. Because in all honesty, he really wanted to see if it was possible to surf down the stairs on a skateboard with no wheels.

Within twenty minutes they had the corner nook of the stairwell landing completely padded with pillows and blankets from all of the beds in the house, as well as the spare blankets from the linen closet. In fact, the wall was so padded Sam was sorely tempted to try surfing himself, though Dean had simply glared at him when he suggested it. Apparently Dean was willing to break his own neck for the sake of the stunt but would not risk Sam's.

"Okay, ready?" Dean asked, taking a deep breath and steadying himself with both legs on the skateboard as he teetered on the rim of the top step. The carpet was soft and allowed for easy gliding movement with the board.

"Three... two... one..." Sam counted, then held his breath.

It was so much cooler than Sam had ever imagined it. Dean was awesomeness on two legs! He somehow managed to maintain his balance until he made it almost to the bottom of the stairs, where he promptly pitched forward and flew into landing with a quiet thud. Both Sam and Suzie nearly flew out of their skins trying to meet him at the bottom, terrified that they'd find him dead or broken irreparably, but instead they found him laughing like an escaped lunatic, his eyes bright with adrenaline-infused joy and his smile wider than the Grand Canyon.

"That was freakin' awesome!" he crowed, scrambling back to his feet and grabbing the board with a slightly trembling hand. "It didn't even hurt, man!"

"Can I try? Can I try?" Suzie begged, jumping up and down with excitement.

"No way, Suze," Dean said. "Sorry little dude, but no can do. Your Mom 'n Dad'll kill me."

"No they won't!" she cried.

"Can I?" Sam dared ask timidly. It had been such a rush to see Dean zipping down the stairs like that, the risk and the thrill setting Sam's body on fire with excitement. He was pretty sure it was things like this that had adults saying 'Boys will be boys' and for the first time in his life he kinda got it. That rational part of him that had never really fit in the mind or body of a ten year-old was pushed far into the background and replaced with the boy-gene devil on his shoulder that said, 'You should try this. Look how much fun that was!'

But Dean was hesitant.

"I don't know, Sammy..." He bit his lip and fought with himself. "Do you think you could take the bottom landing?"

The bottom landing only had seven steps. Sam scoffed.

"That's easy, Dean!"

"Well then let's give it a shot, see how you do," Dean said with a shrug. "If you don't fall on your ass and break something I might let you try the top."

Sam grinned.

"Deal."

It was all well and good in theory, especially when he'd seen his brother manage the descent from a much higher slope so gracefully and effortlessly. The stupid jerk had the reflexes and dexterity of a cat, agile and fluid and graceful like he was born to do cool things with his body like surfing and Tae Kwon Do. Sam...? Maybe not so much.

He gulped as he allowed the skateboard to tip forward over the top step, feeling how steep the six steps looked all of a sudden, and pulled back, thumping back onto solid ground with a grimace.

"Hey, it's okay," he heard Dean's voice say from behind him. "You don't have to. It was a stupid idea, anyway."

"No!" Sam insisted. "I can do it. I'm just... I just was getting a feel for it, okay?"

The cushions from the couch and loveseat were laid out across the floor at the bottom of the stairs to break his fall. What was the worst that could happen? Some bad carpet burn, maybe. Wounded pride, most likely.

Jutting out his chin in defiance, though defying _what_ he wasn't sure, Sam tipped the skateboard forward and plunged down the steps. The world rushed toward him in a whirl of speed and heat and sweat and he felt so alive he had to whoop with excitement as he braced himself on legs that were sturdy as tree trunks, landing in a sprawl on top of the cushions with a 'whoof' and a cackle of sheer glee.

"Dude, that was awesome!" Dean cried from the top of the stairs.

Sam rolled to his side and grinned up at his big brother, elated beyond description.

They spent the next twenty minutes stair surfing, laughing and hooting like a band of howler monkeys, until a rough tumble knocked two rungs from the banister. By the time the blankets and pillows had been removed and replaced in their original placings, their elbows and knees were hot with carpet burn and their cheeks were flushed with laughter. Even Suzie had thoroughly enjoyed herself, acting as scorekeeper for her big brothers as they competed for the title of Surfing Champion Extraordinaire. By default, because she was convinced she was going to marry him when she grew up, Dean won.

Then Dean had ordered pizza for them so they could sit in the living room and play Mario World on the big TV down there.

"Mom and Dad won't want us eating pizza, Dean," Sam pointed out warily. "I thought they left us stuff in the fridge."

Dean shrugged.

"Special occasion," he said, grinning that grin that lit up his eyes and made everything seem like it was part of a secret super-funny joke that only he and Sam were in on.

"Oh yeah?" Sam countered. "And how are we gonna pay for it?"

"I got money," Dean defended. And he promptly produced the small wad of cash he'd been saving in his sock drawer since he arrived.

"That's your allowance money!" Suzie exclaimed.

Another shrug from Dean.

"So?" He mussed her hair and took a seat at the table before the open phone book. "What else am I gonna spend my not-earned money on, huh?"

"_You're_ gonna buy us dinner?" Sam had a few friends who had older siblings and none of them ever offered to spend their own allowance money to buy dinner while they were babysitting. It was against the rules or something.

"Jesus, Sammy," Dean teased, "It's not like I'm givin' you a kidney or anything. It's pizza."

"But... why?" Sam couldn't help but ask.

"Meal of Champions, little brother," Dean replied.

Sam decided then and there he wanted to always see his big brother smiling like this, proud and confident and looking so happy and _comfortable_. In fact, he looked _at home_ here.

Once the pizza arrived, they made their way to the living room with plates and napkins and Coke and had the best of all Mario World marathons on the Super Nintendo. And even though Sam had already beaten the thing three times, it felt like new to be playing it with Dean, who made up dialogue for the characters as they battled through each level.

Suzie played with them a bit, though being younger she tended to die rather quickly and got bored of the game. So while whenever it was Sam's turn to play Dean entertained her with airplane tricks – a bizarre form of aero-acrobatics that involved lifting Suzie into the air on his feet while he lay on the floor on his back. Suzie would start sprawled on her stomach on the soles of his feet, and he would take her hands in his to steady her as he lifted her up by extending his legs into the air. Then it was open season with twisting and turning and flipping her in the air. Sometimes she would just sit on his feet like a queen perched on a throne, though she had to be careful because his legs were long and it was enough of a drop that she could easily hurt herself if she lost her balance. But Dean never dropped her. Those cat-like reflexes were always compensating for the shifting weight above him, and he maneuvered her with fluid grace – making it look effortless.

Stuffed full of pizza and crashing from their recent adrenaline rush, they eventually settled down, only half-paying attention to the game as they listened to a medley of Dean's favourite music on the stereo. It was probably the best day Sam had ever had, and by the contented grin that settled like a smirk on his now tanned and lightly freckled face, it looked like it was the best Dean had ever had too.

888

_July 4, 1993_

The Independence Day neighbourhood block party was supposed to be one of those 'Events of the Season' that got everyone in a buzz for weeks beforehand. Jane and Peter and Sam and Suzie wouldn't stop talking about it, fluttering around like chickens in a coop with their talk of all the things that were going to be going on this year. The giant trampoline sounded cool, Dean would grant that. And the watermelon and pie eating contests. And the barbeque, because who could say no to food? And okay, so there were going to be girls there, probably in bathing suits. And Dean had finally managed to put some weight back on, and had even managed to build some muscle with all the exercise he'd been doing (early-morning runs and exercises, plus Tae Kwon Do twice a week with Sammy was really paying off). And with all the time he'd spent doing laps in the pool and horsing around with Sammy, he'd more than gained his colour – he'd gotten a fucking tan (though the lobster-red burn his fair skin had initially donned during his second week with the Wesleys was still cause for instant mortification whenever he remembered it). Now that he was looking downright presentable with some muscle definition and a healthy, golden glow to his skin, he could envision himself lounging around the pool slathering some hot chick up with sun tan lotion, and wouldn't _that_ be cool? So yes, Dean could admit that there were definitely things to look forward to with this block party.

But it didn't mean he was going to be a geek about it. There were arts and crafts at this thing too, and he wasn't about to forget that fact. And Peter had mentioned something about a croquet tournament. Who in the hell played croquet that wasn't British and ancient, Dean wondered. Apparently, Peter and his yuppie neighbour friends did. And the general idea of a block party, with everyone shuffling around each others' property, eating food together and laughing and drinking and acting like they actually really knew each other, like they didn't have deep dark secrets behind closed doors, really didn't sit well with Dean. It reeked of phoniness and forced togetherness, shiny happy crap. It was stupid.

Either way it didn't really matter what Dean thought of it because Peter and Jane were making him go, both as part of his 'development' and as punishment for the babysitting debacle. Apparently they didn't appreciate him stuffing their kids full of junk food and inciting them to break the house with daredevil stunts. Who knew? He left out the part that it was his own flailing legs that had broken the banister – though he suspected they already knew that.

So here he was, shuffling along the neighbour's lawn with the rest of the Wesley clan like some member of the chain gang out to bust some rocks under the merciless Phoenix sun. There were people everywhere, kids and parents and would-be parents and dogs, frizbees and kites and smokers. Dean could smell food from various barbeques, could see tables set up in rows along the sidewalk with various wares, from pies and cakes to trays of fresh fruit and vegetables, chips and soda. And many, many coolers of booze.

"Why Mildred!" Jane cried jovially to a bony woman with too-blonde hair with too-dark roots and too much mascara. Even from a distance she looked like one of those shrunken apple dolls, her skin a dried orange leather that puckered with age and wear. "You're looking well!"

"Jane, darling!" the woman replied, giving one of those long, perfectly-manicured-nailed hugs that wasn't quite a hug while she gripped a martini glass full of some slushy drink tightly in her left hand. "How wonderful to see you! And I see you've brought your newest addition out at last."

The woman's weathered face turned on him with eager, appraising eyes. It made him uncomfortable to be looked at like that, but he didn't see hunger or want there, which was a relief. Just intense curiosity, the kind borne of gossip lust. Dean was the latest dish, apparently.

"Where've you been hiding him the last two months?" she teased.

"On a cot in the basement," Dean deadpanned. "But don't worry, they only bring the chains out at night."

Silence. So profound Dean could have heard a pin drop. Jane and Peter froze like fish gulping for oxygen, starved for air and at a complete loss for how to backpedal out of the joke that was making them both visibly squirm.

But Mildred's sudden outburst of gut-busting laughter saved them having to make any kind of reply at all.

"Oh he's a cheeky one!" she admitted between fits of laughter. "With a face like yours and a sense of humour and wit like that, you'll be breaking hearts in no time!"

"That's the plan," Dean quipped, grinning slyly.

"Dean," Peter warned.

"Oh he's a keeper," Mildred said ruefully, wiping a tear from her eye as she patted Peter on the shoulder and stumbled away toward the nearest neighbour with an exclaimed, "Dave Schuster, you old dog! Where _have_ you been sneaking off to these days?"

"Dean, behave yourself," Peter said sternly.

"What?" feigning innocence and ignorance had never worked for him before, but Dean gave it a shot anyway, raising his hands in surrender at his sides as if to say, 'Look, see? My hands are _totally_ clean."

"I mean it, Dean," Peter went on. "Can you please just try to have some fun today, make some friends and enjoy the food and games, instead of fighting us on this one and starting trouble."

"Hey!" Dean defended. "When have I ever started trouble? I've done nothin' but keep my damned nose clean for the past two months!"

Dean watched as his guardian's features softened, looking chagrined and apologetic. Peter approached him timidly, leaning toward him and laying a hand on his shoulder so that their conversation would remain private from prying eyes.

"I know that," he admitted. "And we couldn't be more proud of you for how hard you've worked and how well you've done. Really. It's just..." He sighed and ran a hand wearily over his face. "Dean, you've got that look in your eye like... like you've got an itch to scratch."

Okay, so maybe Peter was better at reading him than Dean had at first thought.

"I'm just asking that you please... just... whatever it is you've set your mind to doing, please think of he rest of us before you do it? Don't go looking for trouble."

"Hey, I don't go looking for trouble," Dean said hotly. "I can't help it that it always finds me."

"All right," Jane's voice cut in. "Enough with the private asides. There are celebrations going on and I for one want to join them. Dean, are you coming with us?"

Dean shrugged, considering it. He didn't really have anywhere else to go. It wasn't like he really knew anyone, though he'd met a few of the neighbours once or twice since he'd arrived. He supposed he could always wander until he stumbled upon something interesting. That scenario, however, was likely to lead to the kind of trouble Peter was talking about.

"Whatever," Dean said at last, following at a safe distance as he trudged begrudgingly behind his new family, hating how out-of-place he felt as the 'new addition.' He could see from the curious and probing glances he was getting that everyone was wondering about him, wondering where and what he came from, what his story was, how he'd ended up reunited with his baby brother and adopted into the Wesley household. He could see people sizing him up, comparing him with his brother, taking in their looks and comparing the light and dark images contrasting in Sam's dark long locks versus Dean's short blonde, Sam's high, wide cheekbones versus Dean's more delicate ones. He could see the questions on their lips that they never dared ask, could see the stories their minds conjured up.

_Comes from a rough home, no doubt_, their looks said. _Probably abused, poor thing! I heard he was living on the streets, messed up in drugs and prostitution_, their thoughts whispered on the wind. He wanted to tell them all to go to fucking Hell for daring to wonder about him, for maybe allowing their imaginations to stray too close to the truth. Because the truth was the worst scenario of all, wasn't it?

"Bill, Alice," Jane said warmly to a couple standing at a nearby table, snacking on assorted vegetables at an impressive spread of finger foods. "Fine weather for this year's festivities!"

"That it is!" the man named Bill replied with a wide smile. He was large and dark-haired with a close-trimmed beard and just the hint of a gut. He reminded Dean a lot of Commander Ryker from Star Trek's Next Generation. "We couldn't have asked for better weather."

Dean tried not to snort a laugh at that, considering it was almost always sunny and hot as Hell in Phoenix.

The adults made small talk for a while before they remembered themselves and decided to introduce Dean to the Anderson clan.

"Everyone, this is Dean," Jane said proudly. "He's Sam's older brother and he'll be staying with us from now on." She didn't seem the least bit discomfited to be claiming him as part of their family now. "Dean, this is Bill and Alice Anderson."

And Will Ryker and his hot blonde trophy wife Alice waved jovially at him.

"And this is Jamie and Emma," Jane continued, motioning for two girls who looked to be about his age to step forward for their introductions. "Jamie, Emma – this is Dean."

Dean tried not to gulp. They were... wow. Pretty didn't quite cover the looks of these girls. Soft brunettes, with matching dark brown eyes and perfect olive complexions, they looked like poster girls for The Girl Next Door. There was no mistaking they were sisters: their builds were similar, though Jamie was fuller in the chest and wider in the hips and taller, being the older of the two; their features were also strikingly similar, both with the same delicate, slightly upturned nose and full lips, though Emma's eyes were wider and her lashes were longer. In short, the Anderson girls were _stunning_. They both had healthy tanned skin and athletic builds, tall for girls but curvy in all the right places. Dean hoped he wasn't drooling.

Jamie was the first to speak.

"Hey Dean," she said politely. "We were just going to head over to the McKinley's pool down the street if you wanted to come with us."

"Uhm... sure..." Dean stammered, mouth gaping open like a fish. "I'll just check and see if..." He looked to his left, then to his right, then spun around looking for some sign of his little brother but Sam was long gone. Dean could see him further down the street with his little friend Jason, munching happily on a slice of watermelon.

"I mean, sure!" Dean corrected. He looked at Jane and Peter to make sure that it was okay, that they didn't have any objections.

"Just remember what we talked about," Peter warned evasively. "About keeping your nose clean."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean waved him off, already in pursuit of the two girls who were leading him towards what promised to be a decidedly not dull afternoon.

"So are you some kind of trouble-maker, Dean?" Jamie teased playfully, shooting a quick glance back at him over her shoulder as she cut through someone's back yard, her sister on her heels with Dean trailing a few feet behind them.

"Whatever would give you that idea?"

"'Keep your nose clean'?" she queried, not bothering to look back this time.

Dean shrugged.

"Yeah, well, when you live with the Flanders, putting your elbows on the table is like a cardinal sin."

He noticed Emma chuckling shyly at her sister's side.

"They're pretty goody two-shoes," she admitted with a grin.

After zig-zagging their way through impressive property after even more impressive property, they finally found themselves at their destination. Dean clamped his gaping jaw shut to halt the slack-jawed yokel imitation and simply stared in awe. Whoever's house they were at, the backyard was fully decked in a kind of tropical themed design with palm trees and umbrellas and lounge chairs and beautiful stone walkways leading to the back door and to the sprawling veranda that was at least ten feet above-ground. And the pool was freakin' huge with two different diving boards. And there was an honest-to-freakin'-God bar at the poolside.

"This is fuckin' beautiful," he said enthusiastically. "It's like Hugh Heffner's pool, man! All we need are naked chicks and we're all set."

Both Andersons blushed and refrained from commenting.

This, Dean learned, was where the teenagers were partying while the kiddies and parents did their thing. They'd be left to their own devices pretty much all day, and considering how much booze was floating around and exchanging hands between the gathered parents, it was likely most of them wouldn't be checking in at all. Dean wondered idly what kind of trouble yuppie kids got into when the parents went out to play.

"Who's the new guy?" a tall lanky guy standing on the diving board asked.

"Dean Winchester," Dean replied boldly, not bothering to be introduced. "I'm staying with the Wesleys."

The teen squinted at him in the sun.

"Yeah, I heard about you. You're Sam's brother, right?"

"That's right," Dean said. _And proud of it_, he thought.

"I'm Derek." The teen held a hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun. "Derek Schuster."

Dean nodded in acknowledgment.

"All right, well, welcome Dean," Derek went on casually. "There's a bathroom over there in the pool house." He pointed to a quaint bungalow to the left of the pool. "We've got a cooler here with soda if you're thirsty. And there's food up in the gazebo if you're hungry."

"Cool. Thanks, man."

Derek shrugged and turned his attention to the Anderson girls. Or rather, Jamie Anderson, to be specific.

"Glad you could make it," he said with a grin. "The festivities are about to begin."

Dean and the girls stripped down to their bathing suits, tossing their clothes on a couple of empty lawn chairs, and joined the rest of the assembled teens near the cooler. Proper introductions were then made, though Dean knew he wouldn't remember everyone's names within five minutes of learning them so he didn't waste much time trying. There was a pretty good guy-to-girl ratio, with girls taking the lead. Which was just fine by Dean. The more girls the merrier. Some of them were kinda hot – especially the Anderson sisters – some of them, not so much. There was a skinny little thing in a bikini who couldn't be a day older than thirteen who kept blushing at him every time he looked past her and man was that awkward. But she seemed nice enough, talking to him more than anyone else did. Her braces were hilarious, though. Angela was her name.

It was pretty cool to be hanging out with people his own age in a simply hanging out context. Any time Dean had ever spent much time with his peers it was usually hooking on a street corner or with a few other boys and girls his age to be party favours to rich pervs at some weird swanky swingers party where he and the other kids were left in separate rooms to be toyed with by whomever chose to sample them. This, on the other hand, was strictly social and relaxed and so not what he was used to. But he tried his best to blend in without looking like a total retard. And once he got the hang of it he even started to have fun.

Hanging out in the pool was a lot of fun, even if Sammy wasn't there to goof around with. He wouldn't admit it to the assembled teens because that would just be majorly uncool, but Dean really liked having fun with Sam. The kid was always so enthusiastic and in awe of everything he did and it made him feel... special, he guessed. Made him feel like he was actually worth something, if only to Sam. And they could really get into some serious rough-housing matches in the pool, competing for crazies diving moves and fishing for things at the bottom of the deep end or seeing who could hold his breath the longest. He wouldn't admit it, even to himself, but he kind of wished Sam was here right now.

Of course, wrestling in a pool with a bunch of wet, half-naked chicks was pretty awesome in itself. So no complaints, really. He'd see Sam later, anyway. And holy sweet Jesus, he'd somehow been commandeered into being Emma Anderson's mount for the weirdest game of volleyball Dean had ever seen. Again, no complaints. The teams weren't very clearly delineated and it seemed to operate in an every-pair-for-itself kind of sense. Each participating girl sat on her participating boy's shoulders and volleyball wackiness ensued. Dean was just so stoked that he had his head between a hot girl's thighs with no chance of her dad showing up to kill him.

Dean tried not to get jealous of Derek for being Jamie's volleyball mount/partner. He was taller, after all, and older, too. Derek was seventeen and would be a senior in the fall, so by rights he got first choice of the hottest chicks at his own pool party. And it wasn't like there was much chance that Jamie would go for Dean anyway. She was almost two years older than him and he probably didn't even register on her radar.

It was awkward slugging through the water with one hundred pounds of hot girl on his shoulders, but he didn't complain. Sometimes he'd deliberately fall onto his back, effectively dunking Emma so that she fell in a sprawl on top of him, splashing him playfully and rasslin' with him to get back at him for dunking her. She'd try to tackle him into the water, which led to all kinds of awesome slippery groping that he so seriously loved. And by the flush in her cheeks and the occasional hitch in her breath, he could see she was into it too.

But he reined in those feelings as best he could. He had to keep in mind that Emma Anderson was only fourteen years old, and while he may be the town slut and sex pro extraordinaire at the same age, the cute little number with the awesome tits for a fourteen year-old had probably only ever kissed a guy and would most definitely not be having sex with him any time soon.

So Dean just took it all for what it was: some good, light-hearted fun. And that in itself was kind of cool, because there was no agenda, there were no expectations or anything like that. He could just sort of _be_ and see what happens.

Some time after three o'clock some more teenagers arrived, older ones – Derek's friends from school. Then things started to get interesting as beer was added to the cooler. Dean remained where he was, basking in the sun's rays in a nice reclining lawn chair by the poolside, soaking up the heat and allowing the warmth from the sun to dry him off and golden him up some more. Looking down at his own body, he could see the hint of a six-pack developing along his abs. _Not too shabby, Winchester_, he thought to himself. _See if that stupid bitch calls you an Ethiopian again any time soon_.

Then someone hauled out a guitar and began playing, and pretty soon everyone was singing along to an impromptu version of "American Pie." Dean tried not to think about how lame that was.

"Beer?" one of Derek's high school friends asked, holding out a sweating can.

Dean shook his head no.

"What's the matter, Winchester?" Derek teased. "Are you a goody goody like the rest of the Wesleys?"

Dean rolled his eyes and snorted a laugh.

"Riiiiight," he drawled lazily. "Cos drinking beer is so _badass_."

"It's a man's drink," the teen with the beer in hand said condescendingly.

But again Dean chuckled.

"Dude, you're drinking light beer," he scoffed. "Which technically doesn't even count as beer. No way in hell that's a man's drink. Now whisky – that's a man's drink."

"Oh yeah, and what would you know about it?" Derek pressed, getting pissy now.

Dean shrugged.

"Well if it's the good stuff, I know it's 80 proof and at least 40% alcohol, which is a helluva lot better than the measly 5% you've got goin' on with your _Bud Light_."

Everyone's eyes were as wide as saucers. Clearly the assembled teens didn't know jack about liquor, in spite of all their swaggering boasts to the contrary.

Derek looked especially put out, not wanting to be shown up by a kid three years younger than him. It made him look especially uncool to know less about booze than a fourteen year-old.

"Got any favourites?" he quizzed, an eyebrow arched and a smirk of disbelief on his face.

"Johnny Walker," Dean said casually. "Red'll do in a pinch, but Blue's better, if you can afford it. Which... I'm guessing you can."

Dean didn't know why he didn't just shut the hell up. Sure he'd done his share of boozing over the years, but he definitely wasn't some kind of pro. And he was walking himself into one of those situations that ends with him either looking like a pansy or getting in serious shit with the Wesleys. This – this thing where he shoots his mouth off without thought to the consequences – was precisely why he was always getting into trouble.

"All right then, hot shot," Derek challenged, rounding to the bar with a set of keys and ducking behind it. "Let's see whatcha got."

He emerged with an unopened bottle of Johnny Walker Blue, still in the box, the certificate of authenticity still sealed safely away inside.

"No way!" Dean said incredulously. "Are you nuts? That thing isn't even opened! Your parents will flip!"

"They won't even notice it's been touched for another month or two at least," Derek said nonchalantly. "Or are you too afraid to take a shot now that we've called your bluff?"

"Please," Dean scoffed, ignoring that voice screaming inside his head for him to shut the hell up before he gets himself into a seriously big mess here. "I can drink you under the table any day."

"Fine!"

"Fine!"

It was stupid and he knew he shouldn't be doing it, but goddamnit he had his Winchester pride, after all, and he could be stubborn like his father when he had a mind to, and he sure as hell wasn't going to be called a pussy or a coward in front of a bunch of kids over something as lightweight as under-aged drinking. If they thought he was going to get his shorts in a twist over _that_, they seriously had no idea who they were dealing with. So Sam, Suzie, Peter and Jane became fleeting afterthoughts shoved to the back of his brain as he sucked back the smooth, burning amber liquid, hissing in satisfaction at the burn and laughing as Derek's eyes watered when he swallowed his own shot.

They could have, should have, stopped there but they didn't. This was a pissing contest, or a head-butting contest, two rams locking horns to win mating rights with the hottest sheep, and Jesus he had to stop with the metaphors, no matter how apt, because he was losing focus and there was a fucking fire in his belly.

After four shots Derek wasn't feeling so confrontational anymore and it showed. If anything, he seemed thoroughly impressed with his young guest, slinging an arm around Dean's shoulder and saying jovially, "You know what, kid? You're all right! This shit's _awesome!_"

"Damned straight!" Dean said, tipping his glass to clink against Derek's in a manly toast of mutual satisfaction.

It was kind of pathetic, even to Dean's limited understanding of teen behaviour and pecking orders, but somehow the scene with the Scotch whisky had earned him an instant place of respect within the crowded group of teens around the pool. The older kids gave him hearty claps on the back or ruffled his hair affectionately to show their approval, muttering things like, "Get a load on the pair on this kid!" and "Man that kid's ballsy!," while the younger ones stared at him as if he were James fucking Dean, the resident rebel without a cause. Hell, even Jamie was eying him with more than just curiosity now, her gaze falling on him whenever he looked away, her cheeks blushing when he caught her watching. Maybe he had a chance with her after all.

Time passed in stops and starts from there on. He vaguely remembered eating barbequed chicken and a really fancy version of potato salad, all the while getting blindly drunk with Johnny Walker and his new older friends. Derek seemed to be falling more deeply in love with the younger boy with each sip of whisky, causing him to sling his arm over Dean's shoulder affectionately every time he caught sight of him.

"Have I introduced you to my friend Dean?" he would ask blearily to anyone standing nearby, having forgotten already that he'd introduced Dean to everyone at least twice since he started drinking the good stuff. "Dean is _the man_, man!"

Dean tried pacing himself a bit, knowing he'd be passed out face down in the pool if he didn't mix it up a bit with some soda in between drinking, but it was hard to do when people were constantly refilling his glass pretty much every time he blinked. And sometimes when he blinked it was to find himself in a place he didn't remember ever going to.

_Blink:_ he was teetering over a toilet, trying to aim the jet stream of piss into the bowl as he staggered to remain upright.

_Blink:_ he was sprawled on the steps of the shallow end of the pool making out with someone, but it was okay because her tongue was soft and tingly and her tits fit perfectly into his hands.

_Blink:_ he was laughing with Derek at the bar as they attempted to refill the ice in the cooler.

Some moments were more lucid than others and lasted longer. Then Dean would gulp down a few glasses of water and try to sober up, squinting in his efforts to pay attention to what was happening around him so he wouldn't drift off and discover himself somewhere else again. He ate a couple handfuls of cheese from the food tray in the gazebo, hoping to absorb some of the alcohol so he could sober up a bit. But the drinks just kept coming, and the Johnny Walker was hard fucking liquor.

_Blink:_ he was in a bedroom, sprawled in a tangle of limbs and tongues on a giant bed with an amazingly poofy comforter with about a gazillion pillows and a spread of candles lending a warm flickering glow to the darkness. And he was panting for breath and buzzing all over and it felt so fucking good to just let go and feel the shared want between two people whose bodies were humming to each other to the same tune. Jamie was drunk, but certainly no worse off than he was, and she was fucking incredible. Every curve was perfect, her skin so soft and silky against his, her tongue a fucking teasing delight in his mouth and on his neck. And she tasted like chlorine and strawberries and her deodorant smelled like baby powder. Everything about her was enough to fucking _undo_ him. And the sounds she made when he slid his hand between her legs and rubbed gently with his fingers... He shivered.

Jamie came up for air with a gasp, pulling away with parted lips and glazed eyes.

"I can't..." she panted, greedy and hungry for more even though her words said differently. "I've never..."

"It's okay," Dean assured her, amazed he wasn't slurring like an idiot for how shitfaced he was. "We don't have to if you're not ready."

"Okay," she whispered, still panting, those teasing lips still parted invitingly. "Okay. I just... I don't wanna stop."

And God, that just went straight to his fucking groin, making him aching hard and really, really, really wanting to give this being in the driver's seat thing a shot. But he could wait. He knew all too well how horrible it could be to have sex when you weren't ready, when you were too young. He wasn't about to introduce this sweet, hot girl to that kind of nightmare, no matter how much his own dick was begging to be satisfied.

"Don't worry," he assured her instead, tingling all over with want and need and feeling butterflies in his stomach at the very prospect of being able to please someone because he fucking _wanted_ to, because he was aching to make her feel good. "There are, um... other things we can do. We don't have to stop. And we don't have to... well, do _that_, either."

She nodded, her mouth capturing his again as she sucked the air out of his lungs with the force of her kiss.

He could do this. He was so totally ready to do this. He'd never really been very far with a girl before, having been the preferred meal of dirty old men, generally speaking. But there had been this one time when he and Rosalea, a sixteen year-old hooker from the same street corner, had gotten high and played doctor in a broom cupboard when they were both hiding from her angry pimp. It had been awesome then – a learning experience, you could say. And it promised to be even better now.

If there was one thing Dean had learned in his years as a prostitute it was how to listen to the human body, how to anticipate the needs and pleasures of someone else by the way their breath hitched, the way the body arched or spasmed, the way they licked their lips or furrowed their brow or gasped in sudden pleasure. Jamie's body was like a tuning fork; it needed only to be tapped to send resonating waves to Dean's keen and perceptive ear. His fingers glided along the contours of her warm and inviting body, eliciting moans with the simplest of touches. He licked and nipped and teased all the right places, and by the time he lowered his face between her legs she was a trembling mass of need.

He brought her to orgasm with his tongue and fingers, each thrust of her hips, each cry and moan of ecstasy driving him to distraction. And when she was satisfied, sated and pantingly spent, she returned the favour by sliding her long fingers under the waistband of his boxers and pumping him gently and then faster, harder, as he whispered in her ear what to do, how to do it, what he needed. He came with a shuddering sigh and nuzzled into her neck, thinking how stupid it would probably be to thank her for being the first chick to make him feel like a man.

He didn't thank her. Instead he took a long pull from the bottle of tequila that was lying on the bedside table and fell back onto the bed beside her with a blissed-out look on his face.

"That was awesome," he whispered with enthusiasm.

"Mmmm...hmmmm..." Jamie replied with a deep purr. "You're... really good at that," she admitted, blushing.

"You're not so bad yourself, sweetheart," he returned with a grin. "Hey where are we, anyway?"

"Pool house," she said with a matching grin. "Derek's place."

Dean nodded, jutting out his bottom lip in thought.

"You wanna... maybe do this again sometime?" he suggested. "Like, maybe... when we're not both drunk off our asses?"

"Hell yeah," she replied, running a hand along his chest. Then she frowned. "It's weird," she admitted thoughtfully. "You seem... older, I guess."

"I'm wise beyond my years," Dean said with a feigned sigh. "Have to be when you're this good looking."

She punched him playfully in the gut and grabbed the tequila bottle.

They lay together for a long time, trading kisses and drinking and laughing about everything and nothing, until Jamie realized that it was after 1 am and the fireworks would definitely be over by now. Her parents would be looking for her and they were so gonna be pissed.

"Fuck!" Dean swore, sitting upright as the world tilted sideways. "Peter and Jane are gonna kill me!"

"Yeah, but it was worth it," Jamie said with a shrug, also listing to the side as she searched for her clothes.

"Where's my stuff?" she asked stupidly.

Dean had to think about it long and hard. He was only wearing shorts. Swim trunks, actually. Right, that's because they'd been swimming. In the pool.

"The pool!" he replied triumphantly. "We left our shit out by the pool, 'member?"

"Crap!" she muttered.

They stumbled off the bed and made their way through the darkness of the pool house, the candles having burned themselves down to nothing long ago. When they arrived outside it was to find that just about everyone had gone home. Derek and a few others were still lounging around the poolside, strumming the guitar and singing badly to songs they didn't know all the words to. Dean quickly grabbed their clothing and he and Jamie made a hasty retreat through darkened backyards to find their way back to the block party.

"'m parents're gonna freak," Jamie slurred, the tequila on top of everything else she'd consumed going straight to her brain to liquify it. She pulled her t-shirt over her head and stumbled as she stepped into her khaki shorts.

"Least you got 'em," Dean quipped. He was so fucking dead and he didn't even want to think about what was going to happen to him when Jane and Peter realized how drunk he was.

He didn't have to wait long.

"Where in the world have you been?" Peter demanded as soon as they'd set food onto the main strip where the block party had been held. "We've been looking everywhere for you!"

Jane was nowhere in sight, no doubt having returned to the house long ago with Sam and Suzie. Thinking about Sam made Dean suddenly very sad and very panicked. What if they sent him away for this and he never got to see Sam again?

"'mm sorry," Dean mumbled. The tequila seemed to have liquified his brain as well.

"You're drunk." Peter was shaking his head in disappointment.

"No," Dean lied. "Maybe," he hedged. "Okay, yes," he conceded. "But in m' d'fense, it was really hard liquor and 'm only fourteen, so... when you take 'n things like 'm met'b'lism and 40% alc'hol..."

"Do you really think this is helping your case?" Peter asked archly, his voice dipping to that dangerous low zone John Winchester was famous for.

"No," Dean admitted.

"Get back home," Peter ordered. "NOW!"

"Yessir!" and Dean didn't even pause at the automatic response, just turned on a heel and made a beeline for the Wesley residence without even a parting glance at Jamie.

With the dressing-down and probable eviction he had waiting for him, the mother-of-all hangovers this drinking binge promised to bring was the least of his worries.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Notes:**

I just want to state for the record that I do not mean any disrespect to Catholics. I'm merely presenting what I feel would be Dean's perspective on the whole Catholic experience (especially coming from a non-Catholic). So yes, we're going to see Dean in church! lol. We're also going to see some fall-out from the booze-fest. There be twists and turns ahead, me hearties! Ye've been warned. Aaaaarrrrr!

* * *

Chapter 10

He had died and gone to Hell. It was official. The fever hot-cold chills wracking his body, the headache pounding angrily through his skull in a steady thud, thud, thud that matched his heartbeat, the roiling in his gut... all clear signs that he was in Hell. And to add insult to injury, he couldn't stop puking.

He'd long since abandoned the toilet in favour of the trash can next to his bed. It smelled horrible, but it also meant he didn't have to get up, which was a bonus because he basically couldn't move. The Worst-Ever Hangover in History was in full-on attack mode, draining him of strength and energy and, essentially, his entire will to live. Tried not to chuckle at the obvious contradiction, because he couldn't very well have a will to live or even be alive if he was in fact dead and in Hell. Which he was.

Sounds of life came from beyond his room and he wanted to beg everyone to just be quiet and stop talking and moving and _being_ for the next hour or so so he could just sleep this shit off and maybe feel like a person again. But fate had other plans. Or, more accurately, Peter Wesley had other plans.

"Rise and shine," he said without even a hint of kindness in his voice in spite of the greeting. Dean didn't remember hearing the door open but the shadowed figure looming through the doorway was definitely Peter.

He attempted a reply and managed a croaked "Guh!" before burying his face in the pillow to attempt some more deep breathing through his nose. It seemed to help in staving off another puke attack.

"Up and at 'em, Dean. We've got Saturday breakfast in an hour and we don't want to be late."

Dean cracked an eye open to peer blearily up at his foster father. This had to be a joke. No way were they making him go for breakfast at Mistress Margaret's Holy House of Pain. That would be just cruel and unusual punishment. No one deserved Margaret when they were feeling like this. Not even Hitler! But by the stern and disgusted look on Peter's face, it was clear that no one was joking. Peter had every intention of making the grossly hung-over and still slightly intoxicated youth drag his worthless carcass out of bed to get cleaned up for Saturday morning breakfast at the Wesley Seniors' mansion of torture.

"_Now_ Dean," Peter ordered, tugging the covers off and tossing a clean towel onto the shivering huddled mass of hung-over teenager on the bed. "Get showered and cleaned up quickly. You smell like a brewery."

Dean groaned loudly and draped an arm over his eyes to block out the light.

"Just fuckin' shoot me an' geh' ov'r with," he moaned piteously. "I'd rath'r be dead thn face your mother today, an'way."

And then a hand was gripping his shoulder tightly, yanking him upright and dragging him clumsily from the bed. Dean stumbled on wobbly legs and fell to his knees before he could catch himself, his arm wrenching painfully at the shoulder where it had been dislocated months ago, twanging needles of fire down to his elbow. He hissed in pain and tried to pull his throbbing arm close to his chest, but Peter's firm grip on him didn't relent. He was dragged steadily towards the bathroom.

So this is it, he thought bitterly. This is where the mask of huggy, goody-goody nice guy shit falls away and the real tough love starts. He wondered, a stab of fear sluicing through his gut, if Peter would use a belt or if he would do worse. He was bodily dragging Dean to the shower, after all.

"'m sorry," Dean blurted out pathetically, trembling with real fear now for the first time in months. He'd stupidly allowed himself to feel safe, had convinced himself that this wouldn't happen here. But now Peter was taking him to the shower, and he was going to...

"Please... don't... please! 'm sorry!" He could hardly see straight for the nausea and the tears clouding his vision, but he did see that Peter stopped immediately at the sound of Dean's voice, halted in place and frozen there as though he'd been shot.

Peter turned slowly, his eyes wide with surprise when only moments ago they'd been dark with anger.

"Dean?" he asked, stern but puzzled.

"I'm ssstupid!" Dean cried, shrinking within himself as the dehydration and sickness took him to his knees. "Fucked evr'thin' up, jus' like you said I would... but I-I donnn want..."

He could feel hands on him, hungry mouths suffocating him, sweaty bodies pressing against him, a thousand memories of his sins being punished upon his body with heavy grunts and being possessed and owned and _fucked_. A shudder ran through his whole body. It was all going to happen again. It would never stop. He hadn't gotten away. He'd just moved from one cage to another. And he couldn't do it this time, not with Sam here to witness it, to _know_. Oh God, he felt sick.

"Y-you said you wouldn't," he whispered, tears trickling down his cheeks. He wanted to crawl out of his skin and set it on fire. He wanted to escape his body, become a part of the chair or the tree outside his window or a disembodied floating spirit, so long as he could separate from this stupid fucking meatsuit. If he didn't have a body then nobody would ever be able to do this to him again.

"Dean..?" Peter reached forward with an extended hand and Dean flinched. "Dean, what are you talking about?" And then his eyes went wide and he seemed to suddenly understand something, for he stumbled back and looked like he might throw up.

"Oh no, Dean!" he whispered, hand over his mouth in shock or disgust. "Dean, I would never... I wasn't... Please stop shaking, Dean. I'm not going to hurt you. Please, just calm down."

But Dean couldn't stop shaking. Fear and dread and sickness and soul-weary achiness had settled into his very frame and shook him to his core. It was a struggle not to throw up, to hold himself upright and not pass out. If he passed out he'd wake up with Peter riding him at a full gallop, buried balls deep in his ass and he wasn't going to let that happen.

Fear of being in that position again made him panic. He was trapped between a nightmare and reality, an old injury from a wrenched shoulder bringing back real pain and terror with it. Suddenly the gap between both worlds, the horrible past and the present, were bridged, brought together, _merged_, into one. Dean's shoulder was a throbbing source of agony and in his mind he was back with Vinnie again, waiting to be hurt, waiting to be fucked until he screamed for it to stop. And he couldn't go there again. He couldn't live that again.

"Dean, you need to calm down," Peter commanded quietly. "Son... just breathe. You've got to calm down -- you're about to start hyperventilating."

"I'm no' yer son!" Dean spat, his voice tinged with hysteria. "Stay away fro' me you sick fuck! Don' fucking touch me!"

He knew he shouldn't antagonize him; it only made it worse when it happened. And if he fought back who knew what Vinnie would do? Maybe he'd bring out the baton again and have Dean weeping on the floor again, unable to sit for weeks, torn up on the inside and infected and in agony.

"NO!" Dean moaned, petrified and near-pissing himself at the icy feeling in his belly. "No-no-nooo!"

His head felt like it was going to fucking explode and the chills and the shakes were making his muscles ache all over. He crab-crawled away from Peter, taking refuge behind the bed as he huddled there in a ball, trying to make himself as small and invisible as possible. His nightmare vision so real he wasn't even aware of Peter anymore. Peter had become Vinnie and Vinnie had become Peter. The two images superimposed one over the other. The past blending with the present. Dean tried to disappear, pressing his back against the wall as if to merge through it, and didn't notice that Peter had long since eased himself out of the room to fetch his wife. He only knew that suddenly a pair of soft warm hands were cradling him to a warm chest where someone's heartbeat thudded wildly against his ear.

"Shhh-shh," Jane whispered into his hair. "You're okay, Dean. You're okay." She soothed him in a hushed, sing-song voice that helped to ease the trembling. "No one's going to hurt you, Dean. Not ever again."

"I'm sorry!" Dean sobbed into her shoulder, unabashedly and brokenly vulnerable as the nightmare began to melt away. "Please don' l-let him hurt me again! I promise I-I'll be good! I won't... I'll do any-anythin' you want, jus'... please don't make me..."

"Shhhh," she cooed. "That's all over, Dean. You're safe now. Peter and I won't let anyone hurt you ever again."

"I fucked up – I know!" Dean went on. "I don't know why I do stupid shit like that. I just... wasn' thinkin'."

He struggled to breathe and talk at the same time, his voice catching with his staccato inhaled breaths with the beginnings of hyperventilation.

"I know better... I mean, I know better by now, right? Haven' I fuckin learn' anything in the last five years?" He pulled away from Jane's shoulder and looked up at her with deep, green, pleading eyes, tears shimmering and glistening in them as he searched for answers somewhere in her gaze.

"What's wrong with me?" he whispered brokenly.

"Honey, there's nothing wrong with you," Jane assured him, laying a hand on the side of his head and petting down his face with motherly affection. Under different circumstances she would have been thrilled that he didn't flinch away. "Except maybe that you swear too much," she teased, hoping to lighten the mood.

"I-I just... never learn," he said dejectedly. "Shoot m' mouth off an' piss people off an' do dumb shit an'... an' I _do_ swear too much, holy Christ!" He held trembling fingers to his own lips, awed at his own innate ability to say precisely the wrong thing, to do exactly what he's been told not to.

"No wonder you guys wanna geh' rid o' me," Dean admitted, wide-eyed.

"We're not getting rid of you Dean," Jane admonished, pulling him close again so she could make him listen with her actions since words were obviously not working. "No one wants to get rid of you."

It was good that she'd done so, because he clung to her desperately, his fingers fisting in her shirt.

"Two days an' you guys sent me away the las' time..." He sniffed and gulped a lungful of air, his breath hitching. "It only took two days for you t' realize that there's somethin' wrong wi' me. I'm not... I'm not good like Sam. Not smart like he is... not... I'm not _anything_."

"Oh, Dean..." Jane whispered, choking on tears of her own.

"An' now it only took two months for me to fuck it all up so you'll sen' me back again," Dean cried. "But I don't wanna go back! I don't wanna leave Sammy!"

"Dean listen to me," Jane ordered gently, taking Dean's chin in her hand and tilting his face up to force him to look into her eyes. "No one's sending you away. You're staying right here with us."

Her heart broke at the sight of his full lips trembling with suppressed emotion, tears welling up anew in anguished eyes.

"Don't let him take me to the shower," Dean begged in a pathetic whisper. He caught sight of Peter standing in the doorway and actually whimpered. "Nooo-no!" he moaned, crawling away from Jane to squish further into the wall. "'m sorry... 'm sorry, Vin. Please, don'-don't hurt me!" He banged his head against the wall, against the pain and the terror and the fear, against the sickness and the trembling and the want to just fly off into nothingness, and squinted his eyes closed tight.

"I don' want it... I don' want... please..." he was sobbing in huge gasped breaths. "Dad! I want... my dad!"

It was clear to both Jane and Peter that Dean was still drunk from yesterday's festivities, and that whatever had happened a few moments ago had triggered some kind of flashback. Wherever Dean's mind was now, it wasn't in this room -- or at least, only partially. Sometimes he was aware of them, aware of who they were and where he was, but in the next breath he'd be back in New York, cowering beneath whatever brute his mind conjured up to terrorize him. It was like he had melded the two lives together, so that his failures here had consequences there. He sounded younger, lost, and terrified. And the way he was repeatedly banging his head against the wall left both Wesleys wishing they could somehow snap him out of it.

"DEAN!" Jane shouted, taking him by the shoulders firmly. Dean immediately let out a strangled yelp of pain, locking startled eyes on her, blinking in confusion.

"Jane?"

Jane nodded, her heart thudding so hard in her chest her hands felt slightly tingly.

"Dean, I think you should go back to bed," Jane said. "You've had a lot to drink and I think it's best if you sleep it off."

Dean's bleary eyes blinked again, the wheels turning slowly, realization coming upon him at a snail's pace as he dragged himself away from the brink by the tenuous life-preserver that was Jane Wesley.

"Go back to bed, Dean," Jane repeated. "You need to rest. Just go back to bed."

The teen nodded jerkily, unwrapping himself from the coiled ball he'd curled into and staggering to his knees with visible effort. He looked confused, as if he couldn't quite remember what he'd been doing a few seconds ago, or why he was on the floor with tears running down his cheeks. Absently he wiped them away, sniffing a hitched breath before scanning the room with tired eyes.

"m guessing I'm in deep shit, right?" he said at last, a sad little grin playing across his lips.

"We'll talk about it later," Jane assured him. "We'll work out how long you're grounded and how many first-born children you owe us, when you're feeling better."

Dean actually chuckled at that.

"How many first-born children?" He shook his head ruefully and crawled onto his bed, hissing when his shoulder hit the mattress. "An' here I thought you only ever got _one_ of those."

"Rest now," Jane soothed, stroking a sweaty strand of wispy blond hair away from his forehead. "Just rest, Dean. Everything is going to be fine."

He was already sleeping the sleep of the dead and drunk by the time she flicked off the light.

888

"What in the hell was that?" Jane demanded, rounding on her husband with a glare that would have turned lesser men to stone. "What did you do to him?"

Peter gaped like a fish, his eyes so wide he looked like he'd been sucker-punched.

"I don't know what happened!" he confessed in a strangled yell-whisper. "One minute he was mouthing off, as per usual, and the next... he just folded and started begging me not to hurt him."

"Well you must have done something!" she accused, folding her arms across her chest. "Dean Winchester is tough as nails and hard as a rock. There's no way he would have broken down like that unless you'd done something to set him off. Did you touch him?"

Peter opened his mouth to answer and then paused, narrowing his eyes with indignant anger.

"How dare you?" he demanded. "You know full well I would never even think about laying a hand on him like that!"

"Pete, that's not what I meant..." Jane heaved a sigh. "I just meant... Look, something must have triggered this. And why would he think you were going to take him to the shower?"

Jane watched as her husband's rounded cheeks flushed red with shame, a look of instant mortification painting him with enough guilt to set her blood boiling again.

"What did you do?" she asked again, this time in a low voice.

"I was angry," Peter admitted lamely. "He was cussing at me again... he... He said he'd rather be dead than go to my mother's..."

Jane snorted a laugh.

"I lost my temper, Jane. Lord forgive me, I lost my temper." Peter hung his head dejectedly. "I just wanted him to get in the shower and he was being so disrespectful."

"So you what, dragged him out of bed to force him into the shower?" she roared. "How could you?"

"I wasn't thinking!" her husband cried. "Jane, please -- I wouldn't have hurt him! I just... I was just going to lead him to the bathroom so he'd get his butt in gear. I've done it with Sam dozens of times when he's been dragging his heels in the morning!"

"Yeah?" Jane challenged viciously, "Well Sam hasn't been through what Dean's been through." Her eyes darted nervously around the hall to make sure neither Sam nor Suzie were listening in. "You know that Dean has been brutalized, _recently_, by a man who was supposed to be taking care of him. A man that he _lived_ with. What were you thinking?! Honestly, I'd think you were the one that's been drinking by the sheer stupidity of your actions today!"

"It never occurred to me," Peter admitted. "I-I never thought he'd ever look at me and think... think I could do that to him. It's been two months, Jane. He's been with us two months. Surely he knows by now I'd never lay a hand on him."

But Jane was already shaking her head angrily.

"But you did lay a hand on him, Peter," she said reprovingly. "You must have given him one helluva good tug because his shoulder's hurt and it wasn't hurt when he got home last night."

"I didn't, Jane, I swear! I may be an idiot but I'm not a monster!" He ran his hands through his hair, pausing with a death-grip at the crown of his head, before expelling a loud breath.

"He fell," he said, defeated and ashamed once again. "When I pulled him out of bed he stumbled and... I was holding him kind of tightly..."

"Well congratulations, Pete," Jane admonished. "You dislocated his shoulder! Now I'm going to have to take him to the doctor to get it set."

"Jane, I'm sorry. I forgot about his shoulder -- I wasn't thinking..."

"Maybe you should go to breakfast at your parents' house by yourself today," Jane pronounced coldly. Her insides were freezing up at the thought of her husband, her partner, her sweet Petie, dragging a sick child out of his bed with enough force to dislocate his shoulder.

"Jane," he pleaded.

"Just go," she whispered. "Sam and Suzie are staying here with me." She could feel fresh tears welling in her eyes as she prepared herself for what she had to say next. "Take a fresh set of clothes with you... I think maybe it would be best if you spent the night."

It would be the first night, aside from business trips or hospitalization, that they slept in separate beds since the day they got married twenty years ago.

888

When Dean awoke several hours later it was only to find that the room was spinning in a tilt-a-whirl of nauseating colours. He had vague recollections of Peter telling him to haul his ass in gear for Saturday breakfast, and Jane holding his face telling him he wasn't going anywhere. At one point he distinctly remembered Suzie bounding onto the bed to invite him to come look for fairies with her in the garden (and he vowed to himself that he'd never humour her ever again when she asked him to do something fruity like that because it gave her a taste for it and made her want to do it again and again and again), but Jane had ushered her away with a harshly whispered, "Dean's not feeling well – leave him be!"

Sam came in once or twice too, grinning at him in his misery.

"Way to take one for the team, big brother," he said affectionately, plunking down on the bed and making Dean's stomach flip-flop with the movement.

Dean merely groaned into the pillow something that sounded like, "hell're talk 'bout?"

"We got to stay home from Saturday morning breakfast at Grandma and Grandpa's 'cos you're sick and Mom and Dad had a fight."

And Dean would be damned if Sam didn't look nine kinds of happy about it, too. Sam hated breakfast at his grandparents' house, even though his grandmother went out of her way to praise him and fuss over how brilliant and honest and pure he was every freaking chance she got. Then again, Dean thought, maybe that was part of the reason he hated going there so much. Praise hardly felt like praise at all when it was done for the sake of magnifying someone else's faults and shortcomings. And Sam really didn't like being used against his brother like that. Dean could tell. In fact, he'd always thought his little brother always looked on the verge of exploding at the old bitch every time she started in on one of her 'someone at this table is trash' sermons. He figured it was respect for his parents and grandfather, and his good, even temper that kept him from saying what he seemed to be itching to say.

"Glad to be of service," Dean croaked. "Oh God... I think I'm dyin'."

If he thought his headache was bad earlier, it was nothing compared to the hell pounding through his skull now. And he was so dehydrated and gross he'd developed the shakes in the worst way. He imagined he must have paled to several shades of green since his brother joined him on the bed. And his shoulder was fucking throbbing. Whenever he shifted his weight even the slightest bit, pain would flare up red hot, and he was trying his hardest to not remember how it had gotten dislocated again in the first place. Flashes of Peter grabbing him and dragging him as he stumbled across the floor stabbed through his memory, adding to the nausea that came part and parcel with the hangover.

"You look like crap," Sam commented and Dean thought he could have strangled his brother for his oh so keen powers of observation.

"Jason says that Shelly said that you were drinking Mrs. McKinley's good scotch and that you're not allowed over at the McKinley's house anymore."

Dean's eyes crossed beneath his closed lids.

"Mc-Who?" he asked. "I thought the guy's name was Schuster."

"Derek, yeah," Sam replied, rolling his eyes. "His Dad married Mrs. McKinley and they moved into the McKinley house 'cos she got it as part of her big divorce settlement when she divorced Mr. McKinley a few years ago."

"And everybody still calls it the McKinleys'?" _God his head hurt!_

Sam nodded.

"They lived here for years and years and have a daughter that's a year younger than me. Derek's dad _hates_ it when they call them the McKinley's, but everybody does."

Huh. _Welcome to the suburbs_, Dean thought. Where everybody's divorced and hyphenated and going by the wrong last name.

"Mrs. McKinely-Schuster teaches English at our school," Sam went on. "She's really nice, and really cool.

Dean doubted that, as Sam likely had a very different standard of cool than Dean did, but he didn't have the energy to argue.

"Why did you get drunk last night?" Sam asked.

Dean groaned and buried his face in the pillow.

"Go 'way, Sammy!" he moaned through many layers of cotton-baton.

"Shelly Kitts said that Angela Pratt said that you were kissing Jamie Anderson in the pool."

"Sam!" Dean warned, not bothering to lift his head.

"And that you were about to do something that people are only supposed to do when they're married..."

"SAM!"

"I don't want you to go to Hell, Dean!"

Dean stopped just as he was about to shove his brother forcefully from the bed, lifting his sleep-tousled head to peer groggily at his baby brother, who was giving him a double-whammy of the puppy eyes and trembling lower lip.

"Aw, man!" Dean groaned. "Sam..."

"I know that in New York people do things different," the kid went on in a rush, "but kids aren't supposed to do things like that and when you do things like that you get in trouble with God and if you're not sorry you can't be forgiven and if you aren't forgiven you go to Hell and are you sorry, Dean?"

Another one of those moments where Dean wished he could just be dead, rather than have to try to explain any of that to his little brother. Sweet Jesus, where did he even begin?

"Sam..." he heaved a sigh. "People make mistakes all the time," he said wearily. "Some people more than others."

Sam rolled his eyes and tried very hard not to grin.

"But there are bad things and then there are _bad things_. Like..." he struggled for the right words. "Like swearing is bad, but it's not evil. Okay? And... and like, okay... Sex is... bad," he had to force himself to say that because he didn't necessarily believe it. "But it's not evil either. Like you said, people who are married do it. It's just that some people can't wait. But it's not... it's not evil, Sam. But like, hurting people is _bad_ bad. And killing people is _bad_ bad. And if there is a God," though Dean was sure that there wasn't. "He knows the difference. He knows when you do the bad stuff 'cos you're stupid like me, or when you do the bad stuff because you're just a bad person."

"But... but Father Donovan says..."

"Look Sammy, I'm no expert on God or whatever," Dean cut him off. "But just trust me when I say I'm gonna be okay. Okay?"

"Promise?" He was looking up at Dean with such hopeful trust in his cat-slanted eyes, looking darkly chocolate brown in the dim light. Like Dad's.

"Yeah, I promise."

888

Dean felt like a monkey in the dress slacks and freshly pressed, striped, short-sleeved collared shirt and tie for church, but wearing the Sunday best was one of the rules of the Wesley household. His shoulder felt puffy from having been reset at the doctor's office yesterday, and he really wished he could put the ice pack back on it. It would be hot and stuffy and boring as hell in the church. The only thing that made it worth it was seeing Suzie prance around in her frilly yellow and white dress with those adorable white buckled shoes and the hilarious little white gloves – which, she insisted, made her a _lady_. The kid was so priceless with her gold-spun hair done up in ringlets, looking like a little princess and absolutely loving every second of it. Sam rolled his eyes and huffed at her, but Dean thought it was adorable (though he'd never admit it because he had a certain image to uphold).

Peter met them at the church, looking extremely apologetic and, Dean thought, pathetically lonely. Jane greeted him coldly and allowed him to give her a peck on the cheek, though she didn't return it. It made Dean feel like the worst kind of shit _ever_.

It was his fault Peter and Jane were fighting. If he hadn't gotten drunk and mouthed off about Peter's mother, Peter would never have been pissed and grabbed him. And really, he hadn't pulled him that hard; it was just that Dean had been still kind of drunk and was definitely too hung-over to hold his own weight. If he hadn't fallen his shoulder wouldn't have wrenched out of the socket again, and Jane wouldn't be mad at Peter, and Peter wouldn't have spent the night at his parents' house.

He'd tried telling Jane as much when he realized that Peter wouldn't be coming home that night, but she had just looked at him sadly and said that nothing excused him being manhandled, and that she and Peter both needed to pray for guidance on how to move past this terrible mistake. It convinced Dean, more than ever, that religious people were just fuckin' nuts.

When Peter approached him with wringing hands and the most morose, self-deprecating look he'd ever seen, Dean tried to head him off.

"I'm sorry," they both said in unison, then laughed in unison at the proclamation they'd given in stereo.

"Dean, I shouldn't have – "

"Yeah, well, _I_ shouldn't have – "

"How are you feeling today?"

Dean shrugged and kicked at a rock on the pavement.

"m'okay," he replied, looking up and squinting in the sunlight. "Still a little hung over..." He grinned sheepishly.

Peter nodded appreciatively. "Wow. That must be some kind of record."

_Like you would know_, Dean thought. He bet Peter had only ever had a couple beers at a time, tops. If that. He was clearly an everything-in-moderation kind of guy.

"Well... I hope you've come today prepared to confess your sins," Margaret's haughty voice called from somewhere behind him. "Otherwise I don't know how you can step into the house of God and dare to show your face."

Dean sighed and took a deep, steadying breath. He'd known this part was coming – facing the wrath of Margaret Wesley. The woman had been robbed of her chance to give him a dressing-down yesterday and had likely been storing up acidic judgments to throw at him ever since. He imagined an aneurysm was likely in store for her if she didn't get to purge her bile at him soon.

"Mother, please," Peter pleaded. "Not now."

Dean began singing "Stairway to Heaven" in his mind to distract himself from all the things he so desperately wanted to say to Margaret Wesley, feeling of all times now was the time for him to keep his damned mouth shut. But it was hard. It was so hard. Every time he saw the woman he felt his resolve breaking down, his desire to tell her exactly what he thought of her growing and becoming more urgent. After the stunt he'd pulled at the party he figured he owed Peter and Jane big time, and so he bit the inside of his cheek until it bled tangy copper into his mouth.

"Peter, you are not doing this child any favours by shielding him from his guilt," Margaret warned. "If you want to save his soul you've got to have a firm hand!" She stepped closer into Dean's space, stepping around him so that she could see his face.

"Your scandalous behaviour is the talk of the town!" she hissed. "And I can see in your eyes that you don't even care. You're not even a little bit sorry."

Dean paused in his humming and cast his eyes towards Peter.

"Mother, I said that's enough!" Peter insisted, ushering his mother aside to avoid causing a scene in front of their fellow parishioners as they filed into the church.

"I'll try to keep her away from you," Jane whispered. "But when we get home we will be discussing the matter of your punishment."

"Yes ma'am," Dean droned. He knew it was coming. It was nothing he didn't deserve, surely. In fact, it would probably be less than he deserved.

Truth be told, he was rather conflicted on the whole issue of his guilt. On the one hand, he didn't really feel that what he'd done was so terrible. On a practical level he saw Friday night's actions as simply a night's indiscretion. Big deal. But on the other hand, he saw the whole thing as a major 'Fuck You' to the Wesleys, who _did_ care about that kind of thing and who had to live with the fall-out of neighbourhood gossip about him and his wild partying ways. The grief his actions had caused them were the source of his guilt.

Once the crowd had mostly filtered away, Peter returned to the parking lot to meet with Jane and Dean. Dean felt certain there was some kind of a talk about to take place, as Sam and Suzie had conveniently been left inside the church with their grandparents, and sure enough, Jane lay a reassuring hand on his shoulder to prepare him for the 'talk' he could see looming in their eyes.

"Dean..."

His hands went ice cold with feelings of impending doom. This is it, he thought. They're going to kick you out. They've talked it over and they've realized that you're a fuck-up and a filthy whore and they want you gone like yesterday.

"Peter and I have discussed it," Jane said timidly, "and we've decided that we need to bring in some outside help."

Dean blinked in surprise. That really wasn't what he'd been expecting. It was also really confusing. What the hell did she mean?

"We've realized after what happened yesterday morning," she went on, "that we're not really equipped to deal with some things."

"That I need to learn how to deal with my anger when I get frustrated," Peter supplied helpfully. "So that I don't ever make a mistake like that again."

Dean still didn't get it.

"We want to try some group therapy," Jane said at last, and Dean couldn't help the groan that crept up from his belly. "Just to help us sort through some of our issues."

"You mean with me," Dean stated baldly. "You want to do this group therapy thing with me."

Peter nodded.

"That way you can get some things off of your chest without having to worry about..." he shifted his eyes around the space around Dean, instead of looking at him directly. "Well, so that you don't have to worry about anything ever getting out of control."

"Things get out of control, Peter," Dean argued. "That's life, man. Look, it's cool, okay? I was being an ass and I totally deserved it. We don't need to go to therapy 'cos you tried to make me get out of bed, man. That's just dumb."

"We think it'll help," Jane explained.

"But..." Oh God, this was going to lead to even more talking about his _feelings_. Didn't they get that talking about feelings sucked and ought to be avoided? It was totally overrated. "I would really rather have less therapy, instead of more," he finished lamely.

"We think _we_ need it," Jane said. Which, of course, translated to _'I think Peter needs it'_ in Jane-speak.

"Look, Jane," Dean tried. "I get that you feel bad about this, but Peter and I are cool. Aren't we?" He looked pleadingly at Peter. "I'm gonna be grounded for like a million years, and no allowance and lawn-mowing duty until I'm 80. And no more drinking."

But Peter was shaking his head.

"No, Dean," he said. "I lost my temper yesterday and I... I lost sight of some important things. I prayed for guidance and I believe that this is the Lord's answer."

_Oh well fuck the fucking Lord!_ Dean thought venomously. The Lord could go to Hell.

Instead he sighed and shrugged in defeat.

"Fine," he said dejectedly. "We'll hold hands and sing Kumbaya and make prayer beads. It'll be awesome!" Then he stomped his way into church, muttering under his breath about yuppies and hand-holding and how a good old fashioned belting never did anyone any harm.

As expected, it was hot and stuffy inside the church, and everyone was looking at him funny. He could see people whispering and quickly looking away when he met their gazes, and his feelings of guilt intensified, replacing the anger of only moments ago. Stories of Dean Winchester the wild child were obviously filtering through the congregation. Sam had been helpful enough to provide Dean with up-to-date reports on whose kids' houses he was officially banned from for being a troublemaker and bad influence. It didn't really bother him – he'd expected as much, if not worse, because of who he was and what he'd done in the past. It was only a matter of time before he became the leper he knew himself to be. But it was hard for Jane and Peter and even Sam. He didn't like that they had to deal with the fall-out from his actions. Suzie, luckily, was too young to have a clue.

The priest entered with the usual pomp and ceremony unique to the Catholic Church, which Dean secretly thought was hilarious, with all the incense swinging and chanting in Latin and congregational responses that seemed conditioned like John Winchester's 'yessirs.' It was eerie, at first, being the only non-Catholic in the group of church-goers, watching and listening as they bowed and prayed and responded in unison at bizarre intervals as though they were mind-melded or something. It had taken quite a bit of getting used to, and though he'd eventually learned the cues, never opted to participate himself – no matter how many dirty looks Margaret Wesley shot his way.

There was a young lady at the back of the church somewhere, somewhere above up in the balcony with the little old lady who plays the organ, who was singing a hymn in an operatic alto voice. Dean found himself drifting off, his lids drooping with the soft lilting of her voice while the priests prepared for the service up at the pulpit. Sam nudged him in the ribs and Dean returned the favour with a tight pinch on his little brother's leg in retaliation. Then he promptly zoned out again while staring at the gold lettering of the black-bound Bible in the nook of the pew in front of him.

Several songs and one dazed mini-nap later, and the priest took his place at the pulpit. The whole congregation fell into respectful silence as the man began his sermon, welcoming everyone into God's house, offering thanks for the blessings of the past week, offering up prayers for tragedies that had occurred in their community and in the world at large since they'd last congregated. It was always the same. Dean wished he could believe, but that was pretty much impossible. He'd seen too much in his fourteen and a half years to have any kind of faith that God was looking out for him. Sure, he could justify that maybe the things that had happened to him were because he deserved it – but what happened to his Mom was proof positive that God didn't exist. She'd believed in Him, had put her faith in Him and His angels, and He'd let her down. He'd let her die, and at the hands of something so evil it left its mark on the entire Winchester family.

That was how Dean knew that God didn't exist. John Winchester had gone to prison for saving people precisely because there was no God looking out for him, either. Dean had been press-ganged into prostitution, had been raped and humiliated and used for years, because there was no God looking out for him. Being forced to sit through sermons in this trussed up God Indoctrination Centre was like rubbing salt into old wounds. And Dean's wounds ran deep.

"And so it is with great pleasure," Father Donovan droned on in his kindly voice, "that I introduce a colleague of mine, and long-time friend, to speak with you about evil."

'_Oh here we go!'_ Dean thought, rolling his eyes and staring at his shoes. _'More sin and hellfire and damnation. Holy fucking God, get me out of here!'_

"Pastor James Murphy," the priest's voice called out by way of introduction.

Dean paused his distracted lip-chewing and froze. All around him were soft murmurs of welcome, gentle, respectful applause welcoming the newcomer who'd just stood up to the pulpit to greet the flock of sheep blinking up at him expectantly.

The pastor cleared his throat to begin and Dean raised his eyes in slow motion, taking in the dark hair streaked with silver-gray, the scruff of his unshaven chin, the kind, dark eyes and gentle smile of the man whose farm house in Blue Earth had become a second home to the Winchester boys while their father was away hunting.

"Hey, he looks kinda familiar," Sam whispered casually.

Dean thought his head was going to float away for the rushing of blood in his ears, pounding mercilessly behind his eyes, expanding within his brain and making him feel light-headed. He stared ahead in wide-eyed shock, terrified and relieved at the same time, barely allowing himself to believe that it could really be his old friend standing here now. He breathed in short gasps, then held his breath to calm himself down. Pastor Jim's eyes scanned the congregation and paused when they met his. He smiled kindly and inclined his head ever so slightly.

"Fuck!" Dean exclaimed.

He didn't even feel his feet hitting the floor as he made a mad scrambling dash toward the exit.

**End Notes:**

So there! I've done it! My first official cliffhanger! lol. Sorry to leave you hanging like this, ladies. Maybe the pirate voice in the chapter notes will have made up for it. heh heh


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Notes:**

Sorry for the long wait, ladies! I went away for the weekend and had no internet access for a full three days. (gasp!) I've done my best to put together the latest installment for you and hope it doesn't fall short.

* * *

Chapter 11

"Dean!" the pastor's voice shouted from the pulpit, but Dean was already at the exit, pulling the heavy wooden door open with an angry heave and flinging himself through it in a desperate effort to just get the hell away from the church. Too many feelings and questions and… just too much everything swirling around in his head, and the need to run was the only thing he could focus on. He'd made it through the ante-room and was already on his way to freedom, the front door within reach.

"Dean!" Pastor Jim's voice called again, closer now as he made his way towards the wayward teen.

Dean decidedly ignored him and continued out into the bright sunlight, taking the stairs two at a time to find himself on solid ground. The parking lot was filled with cars and right now the urge to smash a window and hotwire one so he could drive as fast and as far away as possible was pretty hard to ignore.

"Son, please!" the pastor begged, his own Sunday dress shoes thumping on the stairs as he chased after the teen. "Please, Dean, wait! Talk to me!"

Dean paused, uncertain where to go, what to do. Where the hell could he run to to just get away from this? To not have to face his anger and his shame and humiliation at the idea of facing his father's good friend, a man who'd been like a father to him in so many ways.

"Dean!" Jane's voice called.

Great. Just great. So the Wesleys had followed him too. But then, of course they had. They'd only seen Dean freak out when he saw the pastor, and then had obviously seen the pastor chase after him like some kind of mad man. They didn't know the history, didn't realize that Jim had never, would never, hurt Dean. They probably thought Jim was some kind of pervert from Dean's past.

Dean didn't really care at this point. All he knew was that he needed to get out of here now. He couldn't face Jim, for a million and one different reasons. He just needed to get away. Now.

He turned to make a mad dash to cross the street and ran smack dab into a solid wall of flannel and denim, tumbling backward and landing on his ass with a breathless 'oof!' Momentarily dazed, Dean reached out to take the proffered hand of the man he'd nearly run over, but then paused as his senses were overwhelmed with the familiar smell of gun oil and engine grease. For one hysterical moment he thought _'Dad'_ but the smell wasn't quite right for that. This was a huskier, rougher smell, without the faint whiff of whiskey and tobacco from countless nights of hustling pool in smoky bars. But it was comforting and _familiar_.

He looked up mid-reach to find watery green-gray eyes looking at him, a warm, sad smile spread over crooked teeth, a rusty-graying beard close-cropped on the face of an old mechanic he thought he'd never live to see again.

"Bobby?" he breathed.

"Didn't yer Daddy teach ya to watch where yer goin' kid?" Bobby Singer teased. And before Dean had a chance to snatch his hand away, he was pulled to his feet and snagged into a desperate, tight embrace.

Dean was so shocked and stunned he ignored the sudden stab of pain in his shoulder from having been yanked up from the ground. He stood stiff and still, trembling from the overload of everything, unable to process that his father's friends were here, unable to come up with an explanation for why they were here.

"What do you think you're doing?" Peter's shocked voice cut through Dean's stupor. "Get your filthy hands off him!"

Dean squirmed in Bobby's embrace as the grizzly old mechanic reflexively held him tighter. He could feel the tension coming off the old hunter in waves. Bobby was practically trembling, and that made Dean more nervous than anything.

"It's okay," he heard himself utter in a garbled voice that was weaker than a kitten's meow. He cleared his throat and tried again. "It's okay."

He pushed away from Bobby and took a few steps back. Pastor Jim was standing nearby, but not so near that he could reach out and touch Dean. He was keeping a safe enough distance, most likely for Peter and Jane's benefit, who looked like they were only moments away from running to the nearest phone to call the police.

"It's okay," Dean repeated, seeing the need to diffuse the situation before things got out of hand. "I know them."

It was no surprise that Dean's admission did nothing to dispel the Wesleys' fears. If anything, they both looked more alarmed, more inclined to fetch the nearest law person to haul the two big bad child molesters away.

"We're friends of his daddy's, ya idjits!" Bobby spat.

"Then why did he run from you?" Jane demanded skeptically.

"You'll have to ask him," Bobby retorted coldly.

"Everyone please," Jim's sure, solid voice said calmly. "Let's just take a few moments to calm down."

"But for the record," Bobby went on, ignoring his friend. "He ran _into_ me, and away from _him_," pointing at Jim.

"You're not helping, Singer," Jim muttered from the side of his mouth.

It was like being in the middle of a mud-slinging match, watching as one side threw heaping globs of muck at the other, his head whipping from left to right, then left again, as the adults around him practically snarled at each other as though fighting for first eating rights to a freshly killed slab of meat.

"I won't say it again," Peter warned. "Step away from him. Now."

"Oh yeah?" Bobby taunted. "What're ya gonna do, there Sport? Slap a restrainin' order on me?"

"For a start," Jane threatened.

"Guys, I'm fine," Dean insisted. "No one's restraining anyone."

Pastor Jim gave Dean a small, reassuring smile before taking a few steps towards Peter and Jane, his hands raised in a placating, surrendering manner.

"Mr. and Mrs. Wesley," he said calmly. "I'm Pastor Jim Murphy. I'm with a rather large parish in Blue Earth Minnesota, and a long-time friend of Father Donovan. I'm also a close friend of John Winchester. Dean and Sam's father."

Dean watched as the Wesleys both gulped down that information with matching wide-eyed expressions of fear. It was funny how Jim could disarm them both in one breath with the whole 'I'm a pastor who's friends with your priest' thing and then pull the rug out from under their feet by dropping the 'John Winchester and I go _waaaaay_ back' bombshell. Apparently being close friends with a convicted serial killer didn't really stack up well on anyone's list of credentials.

"What do you want?" Jane asked skeptically.

"We just need to speak with Dean. Privately, if you don't mind."

"Absolutely not," Peter said. He was standing rigid like a flagpole and looking anxious as hell. Dean figured there might be some residual feelings of guilt and awkwardness about what had happened the previous morning with Dean's shoulder. Maybe he was trying to make up for his momentary memory lapse in grabbing Dean's shoulder by being over-protective now.

"You're insane if you think we're going to leave him alone with you."

"Peter, it's okay," Dean placated.

"You don't have to leave," Jim conceded. "You can stay within eyeshot, if it makes you more comfortable. But I really must insist on speaking with Dean privately."

"No," Jane insisted. "Anything you have to say to Dean you can say in front of us."

"Guys, I'm fine," Dean insisted. He sighed in irritation when it became clear that no one was listening to him.

"This is family business," Bobby hedged. "We got word from his Daddy and it ain't meant for your ears."

"Dad?" Dean asked, his heart suddenly in his throat. It had been five years since he'd seen his father; five years since he'd even heard any word on how he was doing. Dean gulped past the emotions that had decided to bundle up in his throat to choke him.

"Dad wants to talk to me?"

Jim turned on him with a sad smile.

"He does," the man said kindly, softly.

Dean nodded and tensed when he saw Peter and Jane bristling to come to his side.

"Just wait here," Dean instructed, pointing a finger at the church doors as if to order them to remain at that precise spot. "We're just going to stand over there by the car – you'll be able to see us the whole time."

"Dean –" Jane began to protest.

"This isn't up for discussion," Dean said abruptly. Then without another word he turned and led the two older men towards the minivan parked over in the next aisle. He stopped, cast his gaze toward Peter and Jane, who were fidgeting and craning their necks in the hopes of getting a better glimpse of him with the older men, and then redirected his attention to the real matter at hand. Both Bobby and Jim were looking at him with half-smirks, half-surprised shock, and at first the meaning was lost on Dean.

"Boy, if you ain't your Daddy's kid," Bobby remarked ruefully, whistling a 'hoo boy' and rolling his eyes in the Wesleys' direction. "'This ain't up for discussion,'" he muttered, chuckling.

Dean blushed, feeling a faint flush of pride welling up within him at the mention of his father, at being compared to the great John Winchester. He liked to think he'd be like his Dad some day, but knew he would always fall short of the larger-than-life legend that was John Winchester. That man was a wall of steel and was made of much stronger stuff than Dean was. He'd never have allowed himself to be used and sold and soiled the way Dean had. His Dad was stronger than that. Still… It felt nice to be likened to him, if only in the dark umber of the man's shadow.

"Dean…" Pastor Jim whispered, drawing Dean back to the present. The man's eyes were deep with sorrow and regret, and he swallowed thickly, as though at a loss for words, as though overcome with emotion.

Dean turned toward Bobby to see that the old mechanic was staring at him with the same intense pain etched deeply in his eyes, an apology on his lips though his mouth had yet to utter the words. Both men looked intensely guilty.

"What's wrong?" Dean demanded, feeling his heart racing in his chest at the very idea that something could have happened to his Dad. Jail or no jail, the wall of steel had to be okay. Even the Death Penalty couldn't keep John Winchester down. That staunch belief had carried Dean through the darkest moments in his life. To lose that comfort now would be to lose himself.

"What happened to Dad?" Dean pressed, panic making him feel sick.

"Your father's fine, Dean," Jim assured him, laying a reassuring hand on his uninjured shoulder and giving him a gentle squeeze.

"Then what is it?" Dean asked, confused. His eyes darted from the mechanic to the preacher, the preacher back to the mechanic again, pleading for answers, demanding answers.

"He wants to see you," Bobby explained. "Finally caught wind of where ya are and got hold of us to come get you – bring you to see him."

_Finally caught wind of where you are_, Dean thought bitterly as rage blossomed in his belly. He'd tried letting them know where he was. He'd _told_ them – had called and called and left messages. He couldn't have been that hard to find.

His anger sparked deep within him, taking flame instantly and roaring to life with the backdraft of bitterness and despair and abandonment that had lain dormant inside him for years. He had long ago told himself that he wasn't worth saving, hadn't been worth saving after what those men had done to him. Bobby and Jim must have known and decided to leave him to it because he was too disgusting to even think about anymore. But still… He'd only been eleven, and he'd been so scared, so fucking lost and confused and broken up inside, and he'd really thought his father's closest friends would have come to save him. He'd been wrong.

"Oh God, Dean," Pastor Jim said despairingly. "I am so sorry!"

There were so many accusations he wanted to lay at their feet, so many sins committed upon his body that he wanted to throw at their doorsteps, laying the blame entirely on them. But the words got caught in his throat, burning through his eyes instead, cold and yet fiery hot with steely intensity as he blinked past the tears.

"We looked everywhere for ya, kid," Bobby explained as he pulled off his trucker's cap and ran a hand through his thinning brown-gray locks. "When I got yer message I got straight in my truck and drove to Kansas to find ya. But it was… God, Dean, the demon had us all turned around."

Dean was biting his bottom lip hard, suppressing the snarl of rage that bubbled through his throat. Kansas? They'd been looking for him in Kansas? What the fuck were they doing looking for him in Kansas if they got his messages saying that he was in New York? His chest was heaving and he couldn't see very well past the wall of tears coating his eyes, so he blinked them away to trickle down his suntanned cheeks.

"It was the demon," Jim offered. "He was deliberately blocking you from us… tampering with your messages, sending us on a wild goose chase so that we would never find you."

"The demon?" Dean's hands felt cold and he felt like he might throw up.

"The one that killed your mama," Bobby said softly. "It… It popped by Leavenworth to pay your Daddy a visit – told him flat out that it kept us from finding you, made sure you'd never get through to us."

Dean felt the icy claws of panic gripping at his insides again.

"But Dad's okay?" he pressed. They'd told him already that Dad was fine, so he had to believe that the demon, for whatever reason, hadn't harmed him when it decided to 'pop by' for a visit.

"He's fine," Jim assured him. "Apparently the demon couldn't resist the opportunity to taunt him."

"Taunt him?" Dean was perplexed. "What was it taunting him with? That he's trapped in jail while the damned demon is loose?"

"That," Jim admitted with a sigh. "And… well… you."

"Me?"

Jim nodded, then shook his head sadly.

"Dean, your father has been worried sick wondering where you are, not even knowing if you were still alive. We looked everywhere, tried every contact we had – even consulted a few psychics we thought might be able to help us locate you. But it was like you'd just vanished. The demon knew that, obviously. He'd been shielding you from us so that we couldn't find you."

"And it was pleased as punch to throw it in yer Daddy's face," Bobby added grimly.

Dean found it hard to breathe. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, so many things he needed to know, but one word screamed through his head loud and clear: why? Why had the demon gone to such lengths to keep him from his family? Had it known that Dean was being prostituted by filthy, rich, old men in some sleazy underground sex slave trade? Had it had a hand in putting Dean there, forcing him into that life? Had it told his father what he'd done?

When Dean did finally find his voice, it came out as a hoarse whisper.

"Did it… did it know where I was?"

Both faces seemed to crumble with the added weight of fresh, new guilt.

"Yeah," Bobby admitted, his own voice so hoarse it sounded like gravel crunching over cement. "It's been keepin' tabs on ya."

Dean's nostrils flared as he struggled to keep the tears at bay, as he struggled to choke back the sob that fought its way up his throat. He knew that his lip was jiggling, that his whole face screamed, 'I'm gonna break down and cry like a big freakin' girl!' but he couldn't school it into the mask of calm he sought.

The demon knew. It knew that Dean was a whore, and it had told his father. Which meant John Winchester knew – knew that his little soldier was a cheap, worthless slut who'd been pandered around and violated by all and sundry. Dean could see in their faces, in the guilty, broken expressions they each wore, that Bobby and Jim knew it too.

He wanted to crawl into a deep, dark hole and hide his face away forever, hide his unending shame.

"We're so sorry, kid," Bobby whispered, and damn if his lip wasn't trembling too. "If we coulda saved ya… If we coulda just found ya, we'd have been there. I damned near lost my mind lookin' for ya. I swear."

Dean sniffed and nodded, staring at his shoes.

"So…" he mumbled. "You didn't…?" He cast his eyes up from the ground to look at each man in turn, meekly, tentatively. "You didn't leave me there? On purpose?" he added, hating himself for how small he felt, hating that he'd felt the need to ask the question at all.

"No," Jim assured him, and in two strides he was there, his strong arms wrapping around Dean to hold him close. "We never left you on purpose Dean. We would never have left you on purpose."

Dean found himself clinging to the kindly pastor as if he were his father, clinging to him and holding tight, as though letting go would somehow bring him back to New York, back to being eleven and scared and heartbroken. It felt strange to be so needy, to be so clingy, strange to put his trust in someone who for years he'd thought had abandoned him. Stranger still was to feel loved, to know that this man loved him, in spite of what he knew about where Dean had been and what he had done. Both Jim and Bobby knew all about his sordid past and they weren't looking at him with disgust.

"Why?" Dean asked, his face buried deeply in the folds of Pastor Jim's black smock. "Why'd the demon do it?"

A strong hand patted his head, and it didn't make him flinch at all with memories of unwanted touches. This was Pastor Jim, who had always been sort of synonymous with safety and home. Like the Impala or his mother's golden hair or his Dad's brown eyes. Pastor Jim who always gave hugs, even when a nine year-old Dean had insisted he was too old for kiddy stuff like hugs and bedtime prayers. Pastor Jim was comfort.

"We don't know," Jim admitted sadly. "But your father thinks it was to keep you and Sam apart. It knows how good a protector you are and probably wanted to keep you away from Sam."

"Sam?" Dean queried, pulling his head away from the older man's shoulder to peer into his eyes. "The demon was after Sam?"

It had occurred to him before. The fire happening in Sam's room, Mom burning over Sam's crib. It had always been in the back of his mind that the whole thing had really been about his baby brother, though Dean had done his best to squash those feelings. Either way it didn't matter. It wasn't Sam's fault, that was for sure. And if anything, it had always made him feel all the more protective of his baby brother, because if that dark evil thing had come to their house intent on getting to Sam, then it could always come back. And he'd vowed at the age of four that it would have to walk through him first.

"We think so," Bobby said. "Or at least yer Daddy does. But he'll explain more when you see him in person in Kansas."

Dean pulled away from Jim's embrace and wiped the tears away with a heavy sigh. He wished he had a tissue or something – feeling suddenly like a snot-nosed, weepy kid with his eyes all puffy and tears running tracks down his cheeks.

"So you're serious?" Dean asked. "About taking me to see Dad?"

Bobby gave a curt nod and grinned.

"Warden's on vacation and the Deputy Warden's an ex-vet. I guess the poor bastard guard the demon possessed when he went in to see yer Daddy felt motivated enough to plead yer Daddy's case for a visit. We'da been here sooner only we had to wait 'til the Warden was away – he's not one for lettin' Death Row inmates have visitations with family 'less they're behind glass."

"You'll get to see him in the visiting reception area," Jim explained with a warm smile. "It's more personal, though obviously still supervised. No glass or phones, though."

"When can we go?" Dean asked without hesitation.

888

Water bubbled in large, bulbous billows of glug, glug, glug as he pressed the nozzle on the cold tap of the water cooler, slowly filling his water bottle to the brim and capping it with a satisfied twist of the wrist. Almost instantly the glass began to fog, tiny beads of condensation forming beneath his strong fingers as he gave the bottle a quick wipe with a napkin to dry off any excess water before returning to his desk. He hated Mondays, though not for the same reasons everyone else hated them. It wasn't returning to the hum drum job that got him down. It wasn't the 9-5 routine, the glare of overhead fluorescent lights, the constant clack-clack-clacking of fingers on keys, the incessant ringing of countless phones throughout the office. Those things he could live with without complaint. It was the early-morning chatter, the mindless small-talk, the forced smiles and contrived conversations, the post-weekend gossip and feigned interest in what everyone else was up to on the weekend. It was all so fake and pointless and Dennis hated every minute of it. It was a chore to pretend to care, to keep the smile plastered onto his face while his colleagues made their way past his desk to offer up some more mindless chit-chat.

The only person whose conversation he was interested in partaking in was Peter's.

_Ah, Peter_, Dennis thought with a sigh. _What a treasure trove of information you've been_.

The pious father of two, now father of three, was quite the chatty Cathy. He loved to regale the whole office with tales of his sweet little Suzie and that smart little Sam. And now Dean… Dean was a handful, apparently. Dealing with that wild child was like reinventing the wheel.

'Do you think I should be getting more exercise?' Peter had randomly asked one morning, his oddly young-looking, round face the perfect puzzle of concern. 'Dean's up every morning at 5:00 for a two-mile run and I feel sort of… I don't know… I guess, lazy? I feel like maybe I should be more active or something.'

_Why thank you, Peter_, Dennis had thought inwardly as bubbles of glee did a tap dance inside his belly. _So Dean goes on an early morning run every morning, does he? How very thoughtful of you to provide me with that wonderful insight into the boy's schedule_.

'Jane has had to almost double our grocery buying,' Peter had also confided. 'I guess I never really thought about how much growing boys eat, but Good Lord! Dean's nearly eating us out of house and home!' And the good natured fellow had chuckled. Dennis's returned smile was entirely genuine, imagining that beautiful boy getting fit and strong.

'It's a good thing I rarely sleep in,' he'd ruefully added one day. 'That boy's singing in the shower would wake the dead – and his shower wall is right behind our heads! Goodness, Jane is thinking of buying ear plugs!'

'I swear, my kids are turning into beach babies,' Peter had said off-handedly on another occasion. 'Now that it's summer they spend nearly every waking moment out by the pool. But I suppose it's a good thing – Dean was far too pale anyway.'

Imagining the golden skin of that gorgeous child had almost undone Dennis. He'd had to excuse himself under the pretence of a stomach ache. He'd made a mad dash to the rarely-used washroom on the 20th floor to take care of the growing bulge in his pants, fantasies of sun-blonde hair and green eyes and golden skin causing him to spill over the edge of pleasure like the fourteen year-old he was coveting.

At first Dennis had been enraged that the rent boy Dean had gotten away in New York. He'd been such a beautiful child, so strong and pure in spite of the pallor of his skin, the gauntness of his frame, the pain in his eyes, the sordidness of his profession. Even then he'd thought there was something special about the boy, and he knew that claiming him and making him beg would be an experience he would never forget.

But the damned hotel staff had called him away with their incompetence, and that beautiful boy had decided to do some snooping. When Dennis returned it was to find his suitcases open, his toys exposed for prying eyes to take a peek at them. And Dean, of course, had fled. Dennis had been so sorely vexed that he'd found the first willing substitute he could, a dirty-looking child named Ricardo, and tortured him until the boy lost his voice. And when his eyes went dark as Dennis strangled the life out of him, Dennis knew that Dean would have died so much more beautifully. It was a regret he thought he'd carry with him to his dying day.

And then Peter had given him the good news: Dean, beautiful Dean, was a Wesley now. Better than Dennis ever could have dreamed it, his precious boy was now within reach. Better than that, he was so easily accessible. Dennis could look in on him whenever he wanted, and had done so almost every day since returning to Phoenix after the conference. And he'd been able to witness, with his own eyes, the transformation in the child, the lightening of his hair and goldening of his skin with the sun, the filling out of muscle, the brightening of his smile. He'd made a few nightly visits to peek into the boy's bedroom through the window, had watched all that golden skin reveal itself to him as Dean peeled away the day's dirty clothing and crawled into bed clad only in his boxer briefs.

It was like having a bird's eye view of heaven, having access to the most delectable items on the dessert tray, sampling the sweetness in anticipation of the moment when he could really dig in. The real event would take planning. Dennis would need to soundproof his home, develop a strategy toward breaking the boy to his will. Because he knew now that his usual routine simply wouldn't be enough for Dean. Those other boys had merely been practice, appetizers, for this main course meal. It wouldn't do to just take him and play his usual games: it would end all too quickly, and then the hunger would never be sated.

No, Dean was the one who would end it all. Dennis was sure of it. Dean was special. He was such a beautiful child, such an exquisite specimen of flesh with his full lips and bedroom eyes, that fire inside him warring with his kind and nurturing nature. And fate had brought them together, had practically handed the young Adonis to Dennis on a silver platter, hand-wrapped and waiting to be devoured. It couldn't be a coincidence that Sam's brother ended up staying at the very hotel where Dennis and Dean inevitably met for their rendezvous. And it was no accident that Dean had escaped, either. Dennis knew now that Dean was meant for so much more than what he'd had planned that weekend. What they had was special, and when they became one it would be beautiful and terrible. So Dennis waited. He planned and plotted. And he watched.

Dennis was drawn from his thoughts when the figure he most longed to see made his way toward the corner office.

"Peter!" Dennis called jovially as he trotted towards his 'friend.' He noticed that the man looked a bit flustered and put on his 'concerned face' to play the part of interested co-worker and friend. "What's the matter?"

Peter fiddled with his phone for a moment, holding an index finger in the air for Dennis to just wait a moment, while he listened to his messages. Then he hung up with a heavy sigh and threw himself into his swivel chair.

"Just gathering some things together," Peter explained tiredly. "I'm taking a few days off for a family trip."

Dennis raised his eyebrows in question.

"Family trip?"

"Yes," Peter explained wearily. "Dean wants to go to Kansas so we're going to Kansas." He sounded more than a little put out by this development, apparently, and Dennis idly wondered how it was that the teen had been able to strong arm Peter Wesley into taking a vacation on such short notice.

"Today?" Dennis asked, incredulous.

"Yes," the man replied with a pained groan as he ran his hands down his face tiredly. "There are time constraints, I'm afraid. It can't wait."

This was all far too interesting for Dennis to pretend to be anything other than completely engaged in the conversation.

"What's going on, Peter? Are you sure everything's okay?"

"It's a long story," Peter explained, then lowered his voice so that no one nearby would hear him. "We're going to see Dean and Sam's biological father."

"Their father?" Well this was certainly news. A father being in the picture might cause serious complications.

Peter nodded and sighed again.

"John Winchester," he said. "He's… the man's in prison – Death Row, actually."

Dennis's whole body buzzed with excitement. This was news. This was definitely, definitely news.

"What…" he swallowed convulsively. "What did he do?"

Peter Wesley grimaced and ran a hand through his hair before letting out an explosive breath.

"Serial murder," he said simply. "I believe there were serious delusions – he claimed to be some kind of monster hunter. His latest appeal is still pending, as I understand it."

Dennis nodded, deep in thought. So Dean was the son of a serial killer, was he? Well that made perfect sense! The boy was truly, truly meant to be his. This coincidence was yet another piece to the puzzle, another bit of proof.

"I would imagine it will be very hard for the boys to visit their father in prison," Dennis offered, fishing for information without seeming too eager.

"Sam's not sure he's going to go inside," Peter admitted. "But Dean's… Dean worships the man, from what I can tell."

"You think he suffers from the same delusions? Maybe something genetic?"

Peter shook his head no.

"I think he was influenced by his father's delusions and was convinced that they were real. He was young and impressionable, after all. But I don't think there are any mental problems there. We've had him in therapy for two months and there hasn't been any indication that he's… unstable or… abnormal in that way."

"Of course not," Dennis placated, the full body buzz turning into a steady hum that resonated through his head down to his toes. It was just too perfect. Too entirely perfect.

"Anyway," Peter said with a shrug. "We're heading out after lunch, so I've got some business to take care of before I go. I hope to be back by Thursday or Friday, but if not Colleen knows what files need taking care of. She'll forward them to you."

"Yes, of course." Dennis smiled politely, sensing that the conversation was officially over. "Well… Good luck with the trip. I'm sure the boys will be fine."

"Thanks," Peter said gratefully. God the man looked tired since taking Dean on.

_Don't worry_, Dennis thought. _I'll take him off your hands soon enough. Then everything will be perfect_.

888

Road trips with the Wesleys sucked beyond all possible description. The minivan was packed to the gills as though they were heading to a bomb shelter to wait out the Flood, and Jane and Peter had the radio tuned in to Easy Listening FM, where some radio DJ with no balls was celebrating the collected works of Perry Como and his compatriots of the 50s fluff scene. The Barbershop Quartet sound of the oldies snore fest was enough to put Dean into a coma, and he felt most bitterly the sting of not being allowed to travel in the truck with Bobby and Jim.

But that had been out of the question. He was lucky, Peter reminded him for the fifth time in two hours, that they were agreeing to this hair-brained scheme to begin with. He had half a mind to turn the car around and let John Winchester continue to rot in prison without any visitations from either of his sons. Dean had fought loud and hard with the Wesleys on that point, promising that he'd simply run away the first chance he got if they didn't allow him to go. He didn't want to run away, but damnit, he would. Dad wanted to talk to him, most likely about something relating to Sam and the demon. It was Dean's _job_ to look after Sam, and come Hell or high water Dean was going to do his job.

Peter had muttered angrily about drinking binges being rewarded with road trips, and Dean could admit that he'd kind of bullied his way out of a serious grounding in light of recent developments. But he'd had no choice. On any other given day he'd have been happy to take his lumps and suck it up like a man. But today wasn't any other day, and the news that Dad wanted to see him changed everything.

So Dean had done with the Wesleys what he'd never dared do with John Winchester: he put his foot down. He was_ going_ to see his Dad. They could come with him or they could stay behind. It was that simple.

And that was how he found himself strapped into the van with Sam and Suzie fighting over who'd seen the last satellite dish first as they kept score of the scenery whizzing past their windows. At first he'd tried drowning them out by plugging into his walkman, zoning out to the comforting riffs of Metallica, but Peter had put the kybosh on that.

'That music is unsavoury,' he'd admonished. 'I don't want it in my house.'

'We're in a van,' Dean had deadpanned, which earned him another scowl from Peter and a warning from Jane to tack on another two weeks to his grounding when they got back to Phoenix.

It didn't matter that they couldn't hear it through the headphones – the guitars were loud enough, Peter explained. And the themes of that nasty metal music were enough to earn him a one-way ticket to Hell. _Well Jesus_, Dean thought. _I booked mine a long time ago_. But instead Dean had promptly fallen silent, looking forlornly at his walkman and willing it to play inside his head where no one else could hear it. Not surprisingly, it didn't comply. His telekinetic abilities clearly sucked.

Sam was broody and pissy, snapping at both Dean and Suzie with equal vigour over the slightest provocation. 'You're sitting too close!' or 'You're breathing too loud!' were among his more heated complaints. When he'd dipped below the belt and waspishly told Dean that his eyelashes were too long, for no reason, Dean did the brotherly thing and punched him hard in the arm.

So clearly going to see John Winchester was cause for some anxiety for the youngest Winchester. Dean got it. It had to be weird, going with his 'family' to see his biological father, who was in prison for murder and who he had little to no memory of. The kid hadn't committed to actually going inside to see John, and Dean couldn't say as he blamed him. Well, maybe that wasn't true. A large part of him blamed Sam for being so blindly loyal to the Wesleys without having any proper Winchester pride. Sam wanted Dean to assimilate into the Wesley clan, he wanted Dean to embrace the Wesleyness and to Hell with their Winchester blood, apparently. It wasn't Sam's fault, Dean supposed, that he was so ready to embrace the 'normal' the Wesleys offered while shying away from the freak show that was his biological family. A Dad in jail and a whore for a brother (though he thankfully didn't know that part and wouldn't ever know if Dean had anything to say about it) were so beyond the realm of normal – and that didn't even include the demon hunting crap piled on top of it.

So really, it was no wonder that Sam was in a foul mood. But it didn't mean he had to take it out on Dean and Suzie.

"What's got your panties in a twist?" Dean snarked as Sam rubbed his sore arm. Suzie snickered at the word panties but fell silent when Sam's scowl rounded on her.

"You're both annoying me!" Sam growled, his eyes looking fierce as he sulked broodily in his seat. "I swear, you two must be the ones that are related 'cos you're both freakin' aliens!"

Dean snorted a laugh but Jane didn't find the insult to be particularly funny, apparently.

"Samuel Wesley," she warned. "One more word like that and you'll be grounded along with your brother."

"What?" Sam demanded. "What did I say? Freakin'? Dean says it _all the time!_"

"Way to throw me to the wolves, little brother." Dean chuckled again, but his humour was fading.

"Well?" Sam flared. "It's true. You swear all the time and you never get in trouble for it. It's not fair that I should get in trouble now!"

"Yeah, but I'm a godless heathen," Dean countered lightly. "I don't _know_ any better."

"Dean, that's enough!" Peter warned.

"Dean gets to do and say whatever he wants!" Sam whined, his face flushing with anger now. "He gets super drunk at a party and doesn't even get in trouble, and when he wants to go all the way to Kansas we all have to go because _Dean_ says so. This sucks!"

"Sam!" Jane admonished, her voice shocked.

"Jesus Sammy," Dean exclaimed. "What the hell is your problem?"

"You're my problem!" Sam shouted, and without a second thought he hauled off and punched Dean hard in the mouth. The moment his hand made contact with his brother's face Sam's eyes went wide with shock and horror, aghast at his own actions.

Dean's hands flew to his stinging lip, his eyes wide also, but fiery hot with anger for all of three seconds before he found himself erupting into hysterical laughter.

"Ahahahaha!" Dean howled. "Rod Flanders just totally clocked me!"

And it felt right, somehow, natural. The mother-hen little brother who hovered and watched out for him as if he were the big brother instead of Dean was way past getting old, and it was refreshing to see Sam acting like a kid, acting like the little brother. It might have said something about Dean's masochistic tendencies that he liked Sam picking on him, but the fact was he'd rather Sam acted like a normal, pain-in-the-ass little brother than some solemn, serious, watchful guardian. This banter and rough-housing made the whole brothers thing feel so much more real, even if it hurt a little.

"Screw you, Dean!" Sam shouted. "I'm not Rod Flanders!"

But Dean was beside himself with laughter, his whole body shaking as he threw his head back and guffawed.

"Sam, that's enough!" Peter ordered.

"You totally are, little man," Dean laughed.

"You're such a jerk!" Sam growled, swinging again with all thoughts of remorse for the previous hit completely forgotten.

Dean ducked and laughed even harder.

"Haha, you hit like a girl!" Dean laughed, then winced as a sharp jab caught him in his injured shoulder.

"Yeah? Well you look like a girl!" Sam countered.

"All right, that's it!" Peter shouted, pulling the car to an abrupt stop on the shoulder of the road. "We're turning around and we're going home."

Both boys froze, Dean looking panicked and Sam looking contrite.

"Peter, man, I'm sorry," Dean apologized, hoping to God that this was only a ploy to get them to behave. This was possibly the only chance he was going to have to see his Dad like this – it had to be now. If they turned around they'd lose a whole day of travel time and Dean would miss out on his chance to see Dad while the Warden was on vacation.

"Yeah, Dad, I'm sorry," Sam added. "It's my fault. I – I was picking a fight and I shouldn't have done it."

"I shouldn't have goaded him," Dean offered. "Please, Peter. I'm sorry. We're sorry." He looked pleadingly at Sam, who offered a weak smile and turned his puppy eyes on Peter and Jane in the front seat.

"We're sorry Dad," he pleaded. "Please don't turn us around. Dean'll hate me if he can't see his…" He paused and gulped convulsively. "Please, I didn't mean to ruin everything for Dean."

Dean had to hand it to the kid, he really knew how to work those dimples and those eyes. It was like a combo-move to the gullet, _whack-whack_ and you were done for. Peter's boyish face fought to retain the angry glower and failed miserably.

"Fine!" he said at length. "But one more word out of either of you and it is a promise that we will be turning around. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yessir!" Dean and Sam replied in unison.

"Good." Peter switched the gear back into drive and eased the van back onto the road.

It was a long drive to Kansas.

**End Notes:**

Papa Winchester in the next chapter. Yeehaw!


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Notes:**

And now, ladies and gentlemen... (drumroll please)... the moment you've all been waiting for...

I give you... The Reunion!

I wrote this at work during a very, very slow day with a sadly huge amount of downtime. I've got no beta, so all errors are shamefully mine.

* * *

Chapter 12

Metal clanking against metal and concrete boomed like thunder as they made their way down another corridor, trailing behind a surly guard who lead them through the maze of halls and doors, each sealing shut behind them with another thunderous clank. Sam felt like the walls were closing in on him and he wasn't ashamed to admit that he was glad his dad was holding his hand. He was scared. Really scared. With each step he took he could feel himself being sealed more deeply within the maze, could imagine himself trapped inside the cold cement walls of his biological father's prison, never to see the light of day again.

He'd decided that he wouldn't actually go inside to meet with John Winchester, but had come along for moral support, willing at least to be there for Dean when the visit was over. Dean had looked at him with something like disappointment and pity, but had opted to keep his thoughts on the matter to himself.

Sam couldn't help that he wasn't ready to see his father yet. It was all too strange and made his insides twist and his hands go cold in spite of how much he was sweating. A father in prison, where murderers and dangerous thugs are sent to keep the rest of the world safe from them. And their father was one of those people. Dean insisted that the man was a hero and had been sent to jail while saving lives, but Sam found it hard to believe. He suspected that maybe Dean was latching onto some childish memories of the man he'd believed his father to be, unable and unwilling to reconcile those memories with the truth: that John Winchester was a cold-blooded killer.

The very idea of facing him made Sam feel a little sick. How could he face the man if he really was the killer the law deemed him to be? How could he look him in the eye and know he came from the same stock as the monster in this very big cage? It chilled his blood to think that he could ever come from something evil, could have been fathered by such a monster. It made him wish that Peter Wesley was his real father, that Jane had given birth to him and that he had no ties to John Winchester whatsoever.

And if he wasn't guilty? If he was the hero that Dean and the two old guys, Pastor Jim and Bobby Singer, swore he was, then what? Would it be any easier to face him then when Sam had no memory of him? Again, feeling like he was going to puke.

He'd been four when the Winchester family was torn apart. Four years old, with only vague memories of Dean's hazel-green eyes and warm hugs and comforting voice. He remembered Dean, though most of it was hazy: he remembered being alone with Dean, probably often, and being scared. He also remembered the smell of whiskey and cigarette smoke on leather, dark eyes and a rough voice. But no face. And what would John Winchester-the-hero think when he realized that his youngest son didn't even remember him?

When they finally arrived in a dark room with a large window that looked into a smaller, more brightly-lit room with a number of tables with chairs around them, a handful of prisoners sitting waiting at their respective seats, Sam noticed that his big brother was shaking.

_Looks like I'm not the only one that's scared_, Sam thought. He stepped closer to the glass and peered inside, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man or monster that was his biological dad. There was a large tank of a man with tattoos covering his thick, muscular arms and neck like graffiti, as well as a smaller, rat-like man with long gray hair that looked kind of wispy like a scarecrow's. A darker man with a thick moustache wearing only an undershirt was sitting talking to a tiny woman holding a baby in her arms. And to the left, slouched with his head down and looking like he might be falling asleep, was a man with dark, almost black hair, several days' worth of growth framing his face, in dark gray prison slacks and a t-shirt.

"You ready, kiddo?" Peter asked, giving Dean a reassuring pat on the back as the officer slid a key in the lock and turned it. There was a loud buzzer-like noise and then the door swung open.

Dean gulped and stepped inside. Sam held his breath as the slouching man raised his face, his dark eyes alighting on Dean with the most intense expression Sam had ever seen.

888

Five years. Five fucking years without seeing his boys, without being able to hold them or keep them safe. So many nights he'd spent sleeplessly tossing and turning, staring at nothing, as thoughts of his boys, defenceless and in danger, screamed through his head. Dean had a little training – could handle just about any kind of gun like a pro, and knew how to throw and block a punch. But he'd been nine, the extent of his training obviously being limited. And Sam's hadn't even begun. Worrying about them had kept him awake for the larger part of the last five years.

Sam, at least, had landed with a good family. John's hunter friend Caleb had done his homework and had reported his findings to John, all of them satisfactory. His youngest, at least, was getting the necessities of life (and then some). The Wesleys were good people. But Dean? After two years Dean had gone AWOL, had run away from the last in a string of foster families and had never been heard from again. Everyone told him that his eldest was likely dead, that he'd been picked off by some pervert and dumped in a dark cold place where no one would ever find his body. John had even almost allowed himself to believe it, except that his instincts and his heart told him that it couldn't possibly be true. Dean was alive. That belief was the only thing keeping him from falling to pieces.

So the news from that yellow-eyed bastard that Dean was in fact alive and had been reunited with Sam had sent the single father's heart into spasms of joy and grief. It was a bittersweet revelation. On the one hand he'd learned that his boy was alive, hadn't been snatched away in the greedy clutches of evil, supernatural or otherwise. On the other hand, the reality of where his son had been, and what he'd been forced to do, wasn't much comfort at all.

Still… Dean had survived. That was all that mattered. They could get through anything so long as they were alive and so long as they were together.

He wondered what his boys would look like now. Dean at fourteen, and Sam now ten… Would they be tall or short? Skinny, maybe? Would Dean have acne, or facial hair? Had Sammy's eyes faded from the deep brown they'd been when he was little? Were Dean's eyes still that amber-hazel-green?

The waiting was slow agony. He'd been led here to the family visiting reception centre, which was a fancy name for an empty, plain room with tables and chairs in it, over forty-five minutes ago. At first he'd been rigid and straight-backed, alert and anxious. Then his weariness had worn him down and he felt himself beginning to slouch. His thoughts reverted back to images he'd tried to banish from his imagination since the demon had appeared to him, images of Dean on his knees in front of some nameless, faceless john; Dean forced to his hands and knees as a line of men took their turn straddling him from behind. In his mind it was always his brave little nine year-old boy being violated, being forced to please other men's rapacious lust, and not the fourteen year-old John had never seen.

John's head bowed in misery and he closed his eyes. His blood boiled at the thought of anyone daring to touch a single golden strand of his boy's blonde hair in anything other than fatherly affection. It was sick and wrong and he should have been there to prevent it.

He knew his son, knew how strong and stubborn Dean could be. Nothing but the worst treatment, with no possibility of escape, would ever have prompted his child to fall into such a life. Dean was smart and self-sufficient and resourceful. He was tough and macho, even at age nine. The kid loved guns and combat training and had idolized his tough-as-nails Dad and his hunter friends. No way in hell would Dean ever have chosen to prostitute himself. Which meant, of course, that his precious baby boy had been abused something terrible, had suffered forced violation, to ever turn him onto that path.

And now John was supposed to face him? He felt his head dipping lower with shame and grief at his son's lost innocence. He'd failed to protect Dean just as he'd failed to protect Mary. His boy had been fed to the wolves and there hadn't been a thing John could do to stop it.

The grinding of metal against metal and the clank of the locks snapping open as the heavy steel door swung inward forced John's mind back to the present. Officer Legaspi stepped into the room without ceremony, leading a pale-faced youth in behind him. John looked up and tensed. Blonde hair bleached by the sun, golden tanned skin, and Mary's mossy green eyes looked back at him, swimming in pools of dew with unshed tears. John gasped, his breath hitching, his eyes instantly misting, his lip quivering, as Dean's eyes met his and in them he saw fathomless pain and regret and shame and deep, unbridled love.

His boy was beautiful. Getting tall and filling out a bit too, it appeared, as his lean frame seemed to ripple with strength newly acquired. And God, what a handsome kid he'd become! With Mary's pretty eyes and that strong jaw with the small cleft in his chin, those full lips and flawless skin, the boy looked like a young movie star. Dean smiled a weak, crooked grin and stepped forward and John's breath was stolen away from him. He didn't see blame in those eyes, though he felt certain he _should_. He didn't see judgment in his son's looks, either. Only longing for the comfort and safety of his old man's gruff embrace, and John smiled at that because it was something he could give.

Tossing the chair aside with an audible twang of metal, John took two heavy strides towards his eldest son and pulled him into the tightest hug he'd ever given. Long, coltish arms wrapped around him with equal vigour, squeezing him for all he was worth. John took in the sight and smell of his boy, relishing in the healthy glow to his skin in spite of how pale (if not downright green) he'd looked when he first arrived. Dean smelled clean and looked strong and felt so unmistakably _alive_ in his arms – not dead or broken at all.

"Dean…" John whispered the name like a prayer, a massive paw pulling the blonde head to his shoulder, his fingers setting heavily on soft, spiky hair. "God… Dean! I'm so sorry, kiddo!"

Dean tried to pull his head back to look his dad in the eye but John held tight, not wanting to lose the feeling of the solid form in his arms. He needed to hold the boy to assure himself he wasn't going to melt away like a mirage. He needed to hold him close so he'd never slip away and disappear again.

"What for?" Dean managed to mumble through the cheap cotton of John's t-shirt.

John sucked in a deep, desperate breath and clung that little bit tighter.

"Everything," he admitted. "For bein' here when I should have been with you and your brother. For not bein' able to protect you when the bastards that were supposed to be lookin' after you let you down. For not bein' able to find you when you went missin'. For not bein' able to save you…"

John felt Dean's arms tighten around him and he could practically hear his eldest's teeth grinding together. Dean positively trembled with the enormity of his feelings, and not a little bit of fear. He buried his face into John's shoulder and John was sure he felt wetness forming there.

"I let you down, kiddo," John lamented through the lump in his throat and he knew his voice was a garbled mess but he had to go on. "A father's supposed to protect his kids, and I wasn't there for you when you needed me."

But Dean was shaking his head no. Again and again. His forehead pivoting from side to side in denial.

"Not your fault," he mumbled.

John took a deep breath and released his death-like grip on his boy, pulling him back to get a good look at the handsome young face.

"It's not your fault either," John said softly, taking in the sight of the red-rimmed eyes and glistening cheeks. "None of it is."

Dean's lip trembled but he managed to keep the tears at bay.

"But I could've… I should've…" he stammered.

"Shhh," John whispered, wiping away the tears with a rough thumb. "No, you couldn't. Sometimes bad things happen, Ace. Things we can't stop. Sometimes we fall into a fight we can't win."

Dean's eyes dropped to the floor in defeat.

"Not you," he amended sullenly. "Somethin' like that would never happen to you, sir."

"That what you think?" John asked, still in a whisper, as he raised Dean's chin so their eyes could meet once again. "Even with me in here?"

Dean's brow drew together in confusion, then rose in horror.

"Dad…" he gasped. "Are you sayin'…?"

John shrugged and smiled sadly, a single tear tracking a long line down his bearded cheek.

"Sometimes you can't win," he replied simply. "Even me. Sometimes the bad guys are just too strong, or too many, or too big, and all we can do is just get through it. And you did that, Dean. You survived. I'd say that makes you pretty strong, and brave."

Dean wiped furiously at his eyes as new tears began a steady cascade down his cheeks. His nostrils flared as he struggled to get his breathing and emotions back under control, but it was clear to the old hunter that his boy was having a rough time. Always the good soldier, Dean did his best to shut his feelings away so that they wouldn't be sitting out in the open where others could see them.

"You did good, son," John went on, giving his boy's shoulders a reassuring squeeze. "I'm proud of you."

With that final admission, Dean's eyes went wide, searching, pleading, for the words to be true. John watched as his boy's green eyes shifted rapidly across the planes of his face, taking a deep reading, sussing out the truth. Then Dean relaxed and smiled, tight-lipped, sheepish. He bowed his head in embarrassment and took a step away from his old man with a loud sniff. Clearing his throat, he prepared to get down to business.

"So you had somethin' you needed to tell me?" Dean asked. Strong, sure, and in control, just like his daddy taught him.

John smiled and took a seat at the nearest table. Dean followed his lead and sat in the chair across from him.

"Yeah," John said with a sigh. "I take it Bobby and Jim filled you in on a bit of what's been happening?"

Dean nodded.

"They said that the thing that killed Mom – the demon – came by to see you. That it… told you where I was."

"Yeah," John replied. "It's been keepin' tabs on us, Dean. On all of us. It knows where we've been, knows where you and Sammy are livin' now."

Dean's eyes bulged and then narrowed dangerously.

"If it thinks it's getting' anywhere near Sam…" the boy growled.

"That's what I was thinking," John agreed. "We gotta be prepared, Dean. I know it's tough with me in here, but we gotta get you back to your training, pronto."

"What about Sam?"

John sighed again, rubbing at his temple.

"I'll see that you get trained," John hedged. "Then you'll have to train Sam yourself. Later, when I…" He paused and lowered his voice. "When I get out of here, I'll be able to take over for you. But for now, we gotta make sure that you're prepared."

Dean nodded solemnly, never a doubt in his mind that his father would inevitably escape his prison.

"What do I gotta do?"

John grinned.

"An old army buddy of mine owes me a favour. Some time late this summer we've arranged to have you get some special combat training with a few Navy Seals."

"Are you shittin' me?" Dean exclaimed, nearly leaping out of his seat with excitement. "Navy Seal training?" His whole face lit up with the most brilliant grin. "That's freakin' _awesome!_"

"Slow down there, slugger," John cautioned, though inside he was bursting with pride. He knew he could count on his eldest to be on board with the plan and to embrace it with enthusiasm. Still, this wouldn't be a cake walk.

"The trainin' those boys go through is hell. You may be excited now, but wait 'til you're knee deep in jungle mud tryin' to drag three hundred pounds of dead weight through an obstacle course that was designed for you to fail."

"I can handle anything they throw at me," Dean replied confidently.

"Good." Dean grinned at his father's faith in him. "Now," John went on. "I also want you to spend some time at Singer's Salvage Yard. I'm gonna have a talk with Peter Wesley about the arrangements – we gotta make sure you get your Supernatural 101 because I want you prepared when the fight comes to us. And there ain't no better teacher than Bobby Singer when it comes to the supernatural."

"Yes sir," Dean said, enthusiastic as ever. If John didn't know any better he'd swear the kid was coming to life right in front of him, the mask of Joe Normal gladly abandoned in favour of the hunter's garb he'd longed to don since he was a small child.

"I want you trained up right, Dean. When that sonovabitch comes callin', you and your brother are going to be ready. I think we got some time yet – time enough for me to…" he lowered his voice further. "… join you. But in the meantime I want you prepared. Both of you."

Another solemn nod was his reply.

"There's something else," John added hesitantly. "I want you to be careful, Dean. Not just with the training and the hunting stuff. I want you to be careful of yourself."

"Yes sir," Dean obediently replied.

"I want you to have eyes in the back of your head, you got me?" John pressed. "There are things… not just supernatural things… that could want to hurt you and your brother."

Dean's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed convulsively, no doubt thinking of the non-supernatural things that had already hurt him in the recent past.

"Don't let your guard down with anyone, you got me?" John ordered.

"Yes sir."

"Dean…" John hesitated. "The demon told me that there was someone… a man… after you. He said he had his ear to the ground and could sense when certain humans – ones slotted for Hell, I guess – were up to shit. And he said this guy's got his eyes on you. You know anyone like that? Someone who might want to hurt you?"

Dean's mind immediately flashed to memories of a suitcase full of rope and knives and chloroform and other torture devices, and a ripple of fear passed through his body. He remembered drugged wine and a frantic cell phone call to the concierge of a hotel to head off his escape with a fabrication about a stolen laptop. But that man was in New York.

Then Vinnie's sneering face swam before his wandering vision, invading him with memories of being taken roughly, violently. He remembered the feeling of heavy fists colliding with his face, rough hands clamped around his throat, squeezing the breath from him. And that day on the kitchen floor, with the lubed up baton, when he'd been brutally plundered and torn up by the cold hard object. Vinnie was a monster and if he knew where Dean was now he had no doubt that he'd travel the hundreds of miles just for the satisfaction of killing him.

"Dean, what is it?"

Dean shook himself to clear away the memories and cleared his throat.

"Maybe," he admitted with a helpless shrug. "I mean, I've met a few dicks over the years who were pretty dangerous, I guess. A couple of them just a few months ago."

"Well keep your guard up for them," John warned. "While I'm in here I can't protect you. So let's keep you safe, huh?" He lowered his eyes to the table and stared at his hands as he fought to regain control of himself. But fear for his son was overwhelming his senses, making him feel desperate and helpless. He'd seen the haunted glaze that passed over Dean's eyes as the boy regressed back to memories of times he'd been hurt by someone dangerous and vile enough, in Dean's opinion, to deserve a trip to Hell. Just thinking, knowing, that his precious son had been through such horrors nearly broke John apart.

"Besides," he added thickly. "I think you've been through enough to last a lifetime."

"You too," Dean added. "Maybe we should put up some kind of sign that says 'We're Already Full of Crap' or somethin', huh?"

"In more ways than one," John agreed, then laughed as he hadn't laughed in a long time. He laughed until he felt happy tears well up in his eyes, laughed until his belly hurt and his cheeks ached with smiling. And Dean laughed right along with him, relief playing out on his features at the chick flick moment so narrowly averted.

"We're gonna be okay, Dad," Dean said more seriously when the laughter had died down. "I'll look after Sammy, get him ready for when you get out."

John nodded solemnly.

"I don't know when that'll be – I'm waiting for my moment. It might not be for a few years yet. But I promise you, son, I will come back to you and your brother. We're gonna finish this thing that sonovabitch demon started."

Dean's eyes were bright with hope and fierce with resolve.

"Yes sir," he said emphatically.

"And Dean…." John took a deep breath and let it out explosively. "Tell Sammy…"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean waived him off. "I will."

But the click and beep of the door opening behind them, the not-so-subtle cough meant to draw their attention toward the door, proved that Dean wouldn't have to be relaying any messages to his little brother after all. Said little brother was standing not six feet away, eyes wide as saucers and breath caught in his throat. Staring intently at John Winchester.

888

As soon as those dark brown eyes lifted from the table to alight on Dean, Sam's heart did a strange Irish jig in his chest, his lungs suddenly incapable of expanding or deflating, leaving him frozen like a statue to stare on in wonder at the face he now realized he recognized. John Winchester – the mythological man behind bars, the mythological Dad-possibly-serial-killer-possibly-hero – was sitting before him behind a single pane of glass, alive and in the flesh and all too real, and achingly familiar.

John smiled at Dean, dark eyes shimmering with tears, lip trembling, and Sam was overwhelmed with memories of that face, of that smile, of those self-same tears. Memories of a gruff, whiskey-soaked voice singing an off-key lullaby to lull him to sleep through a bad cough; memories of strong arms holding him close while he cried through a nightmare; memories of whispered words of comfort, 'It's okay, Sammy. Daddy's not gonna let anything hurt you ever again'; memories of relieved smiles and desperate hugs and missing him so much and being scared that he'd never return.

The memories of John Winchester flooded through Sam's brain with gale-wind force, crashing over him like a tidal wave. Where he'd felt oddly displaced and questioning before, Sam now found himself filled to the brim with _father_ and _brother_ and _family_ in ways he'd never quite ever managed to feel with the Wesleys. It made him feel guilty, but at the same time made him feel like he _belonged_.

Sam watched with a heart fit to burst as Dean and John practically attacked each other in a fierce, crushing hug that neither was eager to let go of. They held each other long and hard, and Sam could see the faintest of tremors running through his big brother's body. He wondered if it was merely his intense feelings of worry and joy at seeing his Dad that made him tremble, or if it was something more – something of Dean's dark, secret past that caused him to wake screaming in the night sometimes, made him flinch when people touched him.

Inevitably the two broke apart, though their conversation was undoubtedly just as intimate, just as intense. The large tank of a man – for that's what he appeared to be to Sam, especially in comparison with his Dad, Peter – was a solid wall of muscle. He dwarfed Dean, made Peter look like a midget, and Sam had to wonder how many hours his biological father had put in at the prison gym because the man looked like he could bench press a car without breaking a sweat. Even so, the large tank of a man was so gentle, looking almost humbled and small, with Dean in his arms, holding onto Dean with his hands firmly on his shoulders, grounding himself, it appeared. Sam thought if it weren't for his hands on Dean, John might float away.

And he ached to be there with them. He reached out a hand toward the glass, as if to touch it, to touch them, but then paused when he saw them take their seats at the nearest table to begin their serious discussion – the reason they'd come all this way to begin with. Sam couldn't rightly interrupt that. So he waited and watched and held his breath, conscious the whole time that his father, Peter, was watching him.

'_How can I be a son to two different men?'_ Sam wondered. _'Can I love one without hurting the other?'_

He couldn't let himself look at Peter because he was afraid of what he'd see there. His Dad, looking hurt and maybe betrayed, at the longing in Sam's eyes when he looked at John Winchester and remembered his real Dad. And that admission in itself felt like the biggest betrayal – thinking of John Winchester as his real Dad was like stabbing Peter Wesley directly through the heart. And it made him angry with himself and angry with Dean for showing up out of nowhere and forcing these issues on him in the first place, and angry with John for getting arrested and allowing any of this to happen at all.

But he couldn't stay angry for long, no matter how hard he tried. Memories were trickling through all his defences, taking him by surprise with their sudden vividness. He and Dean sitting on a couch in a ratty-looking apartment, dripping with sweat and languishing in their tighty-whities and undershirts, suffering through some god-awful heat-wave with no air conditioning in sight. He might have been four, and Dean would have been about eight.

'_I'm roastin' Dean,' Sam whined, leaning his shaggy head into the side of the couch to peer up at his cranky big brother, whose blonde hair was plastered in sticky strands to his forehead. 'I wanna go to the pool at the park.'_

'_Quiet, Sam,' Dean said absently, waiving Sam off like a horse flicking its tail at a fly._

'_It's on'y across the street, Dean,' Sam argued. 'We don't hafta go far.'_

'_Dad said no.' Dean turned his head to look down at Sam, his hazel-green eyes looking oddly amber today. 'We're not allowed to leave the apartment. We can go swimming at the pool when he gets back – I promise.'_

'_When's he gonna be back?'_

_Dean rolled his eyes and sighed._

'_I already told you Sammy, he's got important work to do and he'll get back when he gets back. Probably not more than a couple of days.'_

'_But I'm hot now. I wanna go swimmin' now.'_

_Dean heaved an aggrieved sigh, looking very put-upon at eight years old, and pulled himself grumpily away from the couch back._

'_You wanna cool off?' Dean asked, eyebrows arched in a kind of challenge._

_Sam hesitated, chomping down on his bottom lip in apprehension. He wanted to cool off – badly. But he knew his big brother, knew that he could be a real trickster sometimes. Not long ago Dean had tricked him into waiting in a closet for over an hour, claiming that if he stayed in there long enough pixies would come through the walls and sing to him. They never did, and when Sam finally emerged, cranky and hurt at having been fooled, Dean had thrown his head back and cackled like an old man. 'You're such an easy mark!' he'd exclaimed. So Sam wasn't going to fall for any tricks._

'_Well, do you?' Dean pressed._

_Sam nodded sullenly. 'Only no tricks, Dean!' he insisted._

'_No tricks,' Dean assured him. 'I got an idea.' And as he walked away, Sam could hear him muttering to himself, 'This is gonna be awesome!'_

_When he returned a couple of minutes later, it was with two pots, one in each hand. He handed the smaller one triumphantly to Sam, and it was light enough that the four year-old could hold it without it hurting his wrist. Dean spun the larger pot he was holding with a quick flick of the wrist and Sam was mesmerized by the way it spun fast-fast-fast and then stopped when his brother's fist closed around it._

'_What're we gonna do wif'em?' Sam asked._

_Dean grinned wickedly and said, 'Water fight.'_

_And then the game was on. Sam ran to the bathroom down the hall and stood up on the toilet to fill his pot with cold water while Dean returned to the kitchen sink. They each filled their respective pots and then ran pell-mell through the house, hoisting the water-filled pots through the air to douse each other with cold water, gasping when it made contact with their fever-hot backs. They laughed and repeated the process, over and over again, until both boys were drenched from head to toe, their meagre undergarments nearly translucent with moisture, their feet slipping on the wet carpet and puddles of water scattered on the bathroom and kitchen floor._

_It was harder for Sam to carry his pot without spilling the water, which ended up mostly on the floor, but Dean was patient, pausing to allow Sam to get in a few good dousing shots. They chased each other, slick hands grappling with slick skin, jostling and wrestling and laughing wildly. The sweltering heat was soon forgotten in the wild, playful abandon of two boys drenching themselves and the apartment to soggy wetness._

_And when Dad came home in the heat of it, even his furious dressing-down and subsequent spanking – which Dean only took the brunt of, as he was the instigator and person 'in charge' in his father's absence – couldn't dampen their moods. Dean may have sniffled while rubbing at his sore bottom, but he grinned like a devil as soon as his father's back was turned._

Sam blinked past tears. There were other memories like that swimming through his spinning head, moments where Dean had invented some ingenious game to keep his little brother occupied, or happy, or entertained, while their father was busy or absent. It was funny, Sam thought, how John's arrival on the scene somehow brought back memories of Dean. And Sam was so overwhelmed with guilt and shame because he'd forgotten his brother. He hadn't meant to, but somehow the memories had slipped away. And it stung him cruelly, because Dean had been _everything_ then. Dean had been the first face he saw every morning when he woke up, and was surely the last one he saw before falling asleep at night. Dean had been such a constant presence in his life that it was amazing to Sam that he'd ever managed to get over the separation, let alone _forget_ him.

But Dean hadn't forgotten. Dean had held the memories of his little brother close to his heart, and Sam felt the heavy burden of his guilt for having failed his big brother weighing him down.

He'd forgotten John too, and though his feelings about his biological father were clearly conflicted – feelings of loss and abandonment warring with feelings of love and warmth and safety – Sam knew now that he missed him. He missed John with a deep ache that made it hard to breathe. He missed the smell of gun oil and axel grease. He missed the feel of calloused fingers brushing through his hair as he slept; he missed his father's deep rumbly voice. And he knew, to the depths of his soul, that whatever his faults, John Winchester was no murderer.

And he needed to tell him that right now or he was certain he was going to explode.

888

John froze. Standing in the doorway, being led toward the table by Officer Legaspi, was a young boy, couldn't be older than ten, with floppy brown hair and slightly slanted, big round eyes that were a dark hazel – eyes so achingly familiar that his very breath caught in his throat and he felt his damned lip jiggling again. Sam. _Sammy_… His baby boy was standing before him, eyes wide and frightened, and apologetic, hopeful, somehow pleading. John wondered how it was possible that his kids could convey so much with one look as all his walls crumbled around him and he felt himself being reduced once again to a weepy pile of mush.

"Sammy," John breathed, too overwhelmed to manage more than that. He'd hoped his youngest would come to see him, but understood, albeit begrudgingly, that the kid had probably been raised to forget him. Sam was younger, wouldn't have the same memories of him that Dean had, wouldn't have had the same desperate need to cling to those memories that Dean did. And Sam was only ten. Going into a Federal prison to see his convicted murderer father would be a tough pill for any kid to swallow. So he'd understood when they'd told him that it would be just Dean coming in for the visit.

But now here Sam was.

He was handsome like his brother, but in a different way. Darker, like his dad, with dimples, also like his dad. John couldn't help but think that Sammy was the spitting image of himself when he was a small boy, only with a wider face, stronger, more prominent cheekbones. And both boys had those damned adorable clefts in their chins, a trait they hadn't inherited from either parent. Must be some kind of recessive gene from some long-lost great, great grand-something or other.

Sam didn't say a word as he took a few timid steps towards the table, but John was already on the move. He wanted to be careful and gentle with the boy, but his arms were itching to just grab him and pull him close and never let go. This was _Sammy_ – his baby. The baby who'd witnessed his mother burning on the ceiling above him as she bled onto his bed. His baby who'd always had such a kind, loving, gentle soul, who wouldn't hurt anyone and who John had always feared maybe didn't have the makings of a hunter… This was his sweet little Sammy and by God he just wanted, needed, to hold him in his arms.

"God, look at you," John choked out through his grief-swollen throat. "Growin' up so fast…" And he blinked past the tears because he would not cry in front of his ten year-old. He would not. His baby had been four the last time he'd seen him. He'd been baby fat and stubby legs and miniature clothes. He'd been nothing but dimples and wide-eyed innocence and childish giggles. Such a snugly, loveable child, always leaping into his arms for hugs, always eager to press kisses onto his daddy's cheek. And now he was ten, would soon be a teenager, and then he'd be an adult. And John would miss all of it.

Sam looked up, way up, as John approached, his shaggy head tilted back so he could peer up at his father who was now towering over him, and John saw such raw emotion in his youngest's eyes that he nearly staggered on his feet. Sam looked so sad, and even a little bit ashamed.

"'m sorry," the boy mumbled quietly.

John huffed a laugh, so as not to cry, and ran a heavy hand down his jaw.

"What is it with you two and apologizing?" he queried, shaking his head. "And what is it you think you've got to be sorry for, huh?"

He crouched down, his knees popping as he bent at the waist so he could meet his son at eye level.

Sam shuffled uncomfortably and averted his gaze to his feet.

"I forgot," he admitted piteously. "I should have remembered you and Dean, but…." He sniffed and wiped at his eyes.

"But you remember me now?" John asked hopefully, his heart painfully lodged in his throat.

Sam nodded.

"Then that's all that matters," John replied, taking his youngest boldly into his arms and holding him tight. He sighed in relief when he felt the boy relax into his embrace, his skinny arms encircling him to return the hug.

"I didn't mean to forget," Sam said in a broken voice, burying his face in his father's shoulder as Dean had done earlier.

"Shhh, I know," John cooed. "That's what happens when people spend so much time apart. Things get fuzzy. But you remember me now, so that means you didn't _really_ forget. The memories just got buried for a while."

Sam nodded and sniffed again, pulling back so he could look his father in the eye.

"Are you okay?" he asked, and John had to laugh at his son's sweetness, even after all this time and distance – laugh so he wouldn't weep.

"Don't you worry about your old man," John assured him gruffly, sniffing past his own tear-induced congestion. "I'm a tough sonovabitch."

Sam laughed and rolled his eyes, casting a meaningful expression at his big brother.

"This explains a lot," Sam said, and Dean grinned back proudly.

When John quirked a questioning brow, Sam went on to explain about Dean's potty mouth and the numerous attempts the Wesleys had made to squash the swearing out of him.

"What can I say?" John said proudly. "He takes after his old man."

John suspected he'd be riding high from the joy of this visit for years to come, possibly from the brightness of Dean's beaming smile alone. One kind word of praise from his Dad and the kid lit up like a lantern. Fuck that, he went out in a glorious blaze. _Supernova_. And Sam…? Sam was everything John remembered and more, his sweetness still intact and somehow magnified, and perhaps even contrasted by, a steely strength that allowed the ten year-old to hold his head high, with confidence, in spite of where he was, in spite of his earlier mood of contrition. John had always prided himself on being able to read people, and with one look he could tell that his youngest was strong-willed. Probably stubborn, too, like his old man. The thought filled him with fierce pride, and niggling whispers of fear.

"So the Wesleys… They lookin' after you?"

Sam nodded earnestly.

"And your brother?"

"You know I am, sir," Dean said.

John smiled sadly. "That's not what I meant, Ace." He returned his gaze back to Sam. "They lookin' after your brother?"

"Yeah," Sam admitted reluctantly. "It's hard sometimes cos Dean…" He froze, his eyes going wide at the sudden realization that he'd somehow turned snitch on his big brother. He promptly clamped his jaw shut and said no more.

"Dean what?"

"I'm mouthy," Dean supplied, wanting to let his little brother off the hook. "But it's cool. We've worked out this arrangement where I'm pretty much grounded all the time and everyone lives happily ever after."

"Dean," John warned.

"It's cool, Dad." Dean gave his brother a shoulder nudge to loosen him up. "The Wesleys are cool. Or at least, they're decent people. Cool would imply that they're not a bunch of freakazoid goodie goodies, which they are. But yeah, they're decent. You'd like 'em."

John quirked a crooked grin and arched a brow.

"You probably wouldn't beat them up," Dean amended, to which John once again erupted with a deep belly laugh. God he'd missed his eldest's sense of humour, which seemed to have sharpened in the last five years.

"And Sammy here's a real geekboy," Dean added proudly, ruffling his brother's shaggy mop. "A real brainiac. He's probably got the highest grades of anyone in the fourth grade."

Sam rolled his eyes as if to say, 'well duh' and John grinned wider.

"Dean's real smart too," Sam piped up. "His tutors say he's catching up real fast and that he'll definitely be ready for grade 9 in the fall if he keeps working as hard as he has been."

John's head swivelled back to his eldest, confusion furrowing his brow as to why the boy would need catching up in school. But then it dawned on him. While Dean had been missing these past three years, he'd essentially been living on the streets – he hadn't been in school. The poor kid had been completely plucked out of normal – even if it was a crappy version of normal – and launched headfirst into Hell.

"That right?" John asked, forcing himself to smile in spite of the bile rising up his throat. He wanted to slaughter every single person who'd ever laid a hand on his son.

"Yes sir," Dean said emphatically. "I'm working real hard, sir." And his eyes were pleading, earnest, desperate for approval. "I'll be caught up real soon."

"I know you will," John replied, and it was true. Dean never gave anything but his best to a task that he set his mind to. If he didn't care about something he simply wouldn't bother, but when he wanted something he always gave 110%.

"And I'm looking after Dean too," Sam insisted. "I make sure he stays out of trouble and I won't let anything bad happen to him. No one will hurt him while I'm around." He folded his arms across his chest and flared his nostrils.

It was a sweet sentiment, a bold promise, and it warmed John's heart. But the wording was a little strange. It sounded vaguely foreboding, especially when coupled with the fierce determination that seemed to have settled upon him. John really couldn't imagine that Sam knew about what his brother had already been through – it wasn't the kind of information Dean was likely to share with anyone, let alone with Sammy. And the way Sam was seething in sudden anger and over-protectiveness, it seemed certain that Sam had a real reason to fear for his big brother's safety.

"You got a reason to think Dean might be in danger?" John asked hesitantly, his throat suddenly dry.

Sam nodded and cast his eyes to the ground again. "I had this… dream."

"Sam," Dean warned. "Not that again."

"What?" John asked.

"It's nothin'," Dean insisted. "He had this dream, like, months ago. And nothing ever came of it, right Sam? You're just overreacting, dude."

"He killed you, Dean," Sam said in a quiet voice. "He hurt you and then he killed you."

"But it was just a dream," Dean assured him. "Remember, we talked about this."

Sam was shaking his head no, and John was growing frustrated and impatient even as the cold tendrils of dread tickled up his spine.

"It was the bad man," Sam said, looking directly at John. "He was at the hotel with us and he was gonna kill Dean."

John looked at Dean with angry, questioning eyes and Dean heaved a sigh.

"One of the guys we were talking about earlier," Dean explained evasively. "It was the day I found Sam, actually." He smiled wistfully and John had to cough pointedly to bring him back to task. "A guy at the hotel. But I got away – hid in Sam's hotel room, actually. Then later that night Sam had the dream. But he's in New York, so…"

"Did you know this guy?" John demanded.

"No sir," Dean replied. "And he didn't give me a name."

"What about you, Sam?" John pressed. "You said you dreamed you saw him killing Dean. Did you recognize him?"

Sam shook his head no. "He was just… a shadow." And Sam shuddered at the memory. "He was a monster."

John's eyebrows drew up into his hairline as he contemplated this information.

"He was just a man, Sammy," Dean assured his little brother. "And now he's far, far away. He didn't hurt me or kill me."

"And you're sure it wasn't a dream?" John demanded of his youngest.

Sam raised his eyes from the floor and looked intently, almost defiantly, up at his father.

"No sir," he said. "It wasn't a dream."

John nodded. "Good." He took Sam by the shoulders and held him tightly. "Your gut tells you somethin' like this is a warning, then it's a warning. I want you to always listen to your gut when it tells you somethin' like this, okay?"

"Okay," Sam whispered, awed.

"You did good telling Dean and the Wesleys about the dream," John said proudly, knowing without having to be told that the dream was likely the reason that Dean had ended up being so suddenly adopted into the Wesley family. Sam would have been hysterical. "Getting Dean away from that man saved his life."

Sam gulped, his eyes widening.

"You saved your brother's life, son," John praised. "I'm proud of you."

And then Sammy beamed.

"I want you boys to look out for each other," John ordered. "Sammy, you mind your brother, okay? He tells you to do somethin', you do it."

Sam looked as though he was about to argue but bit it back, nodding instead.

"And Dean," John went on. "You mind the Wesleys. They've been taking real good care of Sam, and they'll take good care of you. That means you _behave_. Stay out of trouble and obey them."

"Yes sir," was Dean's obedient reply.

"Good." John pulled both boys toward him and squeezed them tight. Twin sets of arms wrapped around him to hug him in return, Dean around his shoulders and Sam around his middle. "I never said it enough when I was around, but I love you boys. More than anything."

They nodded in unison against him.

And then the guard was leading them away, out through the door, and John felt as if his whole life was walking away with them. He stowed his emotions away, mashing them down into his gut, so that he could do what needed doing next. It was time to talk to Peter Wesley.

888

"Mr. Winchester," the small, be-spectacled man stammered nervously as he took his seat at the table across from John. "I—"

"Let's cut the bullshit, shall we?" John cut in bluntly. "I got work for Dean and I need your promise that it'll get done."

Peter Wesley was visibly taken aback.

"Work?"

John nodded. "Work. Training, actually."

"Training?" the man positively squeaked.

"That's right." John leaned forward against the table and lowered his voice. "I understand from my friend Jim Murphy that you're a religious man. You believe in God and the Devil, right?"

Peter nodded that he did.

"Well I do too. Only, maybe a bit more literally than you do."

"Excuse me?" Peter sputtered. "I… You…" he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his round face reddening with anger. "I assure you my faith is unwavering, Mr. Winchester, and is definitely not metaphorical. I believe in God and the Devil _literally_."

"Good," John replied with a grin. "That makes this a whole hell of a lot easier."

When the man continued to stare at him in absolute bewilderment, John went on to explain.

"Then we both believe in evil. You fight evil with prayer. Me – " he looked up from beneath dark lashes and grinned wryly. "—I fight evil with salt, holy water, and whatever weapons I can get my hands on."

"Oh merciful Father," Peter whispered exasperatedly. "Not this nonsense…"

"It isn't nonsense, Peter, and you damned well know it. Now I don't need you to believe me. I just need you to trust me and do what I say."

"Which is what, exactly?"

"Dean," John said simply. "I want him trained. I've got some friends on the outside who've agreed to take him on for some combat training and I need you to let him go with them."

"You can't be serious!" Peter exclaimed incredulously. "Mr. Winchester – John – Dean has been through things that no child ought to endure. And you think it's a good idea to leave him alone with strange and dangerous men?"

"Strange and dangerous men who'd be dead before they could spit if they ever laid a hand on him," John promised venomously. "Trust me, I'm doing this for Dean. I want him to be able to protect himself, to defend himself so that no one can ever hurt him again."

"And so that he can fight demons and monsters," Peter added scathingly.

"When the time comes, yes," John admitted.

"And what does that mean, exactly?"

John shrugged.

"It means that some day he's gonna want to fight evil like his old man, and when that day comes I want him to be ready."

Peter was shaking his head in denial, his reluctance palpable.

"He's going to end up just like you," the man warned softly. "If you lead him down this path, he's going to end up in jail or worse. Is that what you want for him?"

"I don't think you get to lecture me on where my son ends up, _Peter_," John retorted. "From what I hear, it's because of you and your wife that Dean ended up traumatized in the first place. If you hadn't been too stuck up and selfish – if you hadn't separated my boys by taking Sam and not Dean – Dean never would have ended up being forced into _fucking prostitution!_"

Peter gulped like a fish, guilt written on every line of his face.

"That's right," John sneered. "I know what you did. I know you and your wife took both boys for a trial weekend and then sent Dean back like some kind of fucking stray puppy you didn't want. You threw him away like trash and then have the gall to sit here before me and act surprised that he ended up living like trash? As far as I'm concerned this is all on _your_ heads."

"We… didn't know…" the man choked out, remorseful and anguished now.

"Of course you didn't," John said coldly, leaning back in his chair to take in the full effect of the guilt-ridden, quivering mass of cowardly flesh before him. "You only thought about how cute and innocent Sammy looked, how easy it would be to make him forget his family so you could make him yours. I bet you didn't even think of Dean again after he was gone."

"That's not true," Peter whispered. "I did think about him… quite often."

"I bet you're realizin' now the mistake you made though, aren't you?" John said smugly. "You had it all wrong with Dean, didn't you? Thought he was all tough as nails when really he was just a scared little boy. How long did it take you to figure out that he's the most giving, self-sacrificing kid on the planet, huh?"

Peter hung his head in shame.

"I'm sorry," he said brokenly.

"You know, when Dean was a kid, he used to stay up at night waitin' for me to come back for a hunt. He'd have supper waiting in the microwave, if we had one at whatever dump we were stayin' in. He started cookin' when he was only seven. I shouldn't have let him, but I did."

Peter looked up and his eyes were watery, but John wasn't about to be interrupted.

"Looked after Sammy and me," John went on. "Cleaned up after me when I'd pass out on the couch after havin' too much hooch. Made sure I got shaved and showered and made it to work on time the few times I actually had a job. Changed his brother's diapers and gave him baths… And he _never_ complained. I never even had to ask him; he just did it. He took care of us because he loved us."

John had to grit his teeth through the emotions riding through him in order to finish what he had to say.

"That's what you turned away from your door when you decided he wasn't good enough for your family," John ground out. "I know he ain't the smartest kid, and he's not big with the hugging and hand-holdin' crap, but there's no one alive I know with a bigger heart than Dean."

"You should see him with my daughter Suzie," Peter said, sniffing. "I actually…" he huffed a laugh and sniffed again. "I actually caught them having a tea party the other day. Just Dean and Suzie. I listened through the door and could hear him telling her to hurry it along because there was a gang of evil bikers looking to crash her party 'whose asses he was going to kick.'"

John laughed and wiped angrily at his eyes.

"Yeah, that sounds like Dean," he admitted with a sigh. "He was always adding strange conflicts and dangers to Sammy's make-believe games too."

"We'll look after him John," Peter said solemnly. "I swear to the Lord above, we will take care of him and love him as you would."

"I doubt that," John defied, thinking of the lengths he would go to to keep his boys safe.

Peter Wesley made a visible effort to compose himself, taking off his glasses and cleaning them with his sweater vest before taking a steadying breath and squaring his shoulders determinedly. When he finally did speak, it was with his head held high, his eyes intense.

"So you want Dean trained," Peter acceded. "We can live with that. How long will it take?"

"Couple of weeks," John said with a shrug. "They'll train him up, teach him what he needs to know."

"All right," Peter agreed with a nod.

"And," John added. "Bobby and Jim have some stuff to teach him as well. They'll be stopping by on occasion to get him. The odd weekend here and there."

The man seemed less inclined to agree but nodded curtly, if a little woodenly, in agreement.

"They won't be teachin' him any devil stuff, if that's what you're worried about."

"And Sam?" Peter queried.

"Dean'll teach Sam what he needs to know," John replied staunchly.

John chuckled silently as he watched the man before him run his hands down his face as if to scrub his worries away.

"I can't believe I'm agreeing to this," Peter said at length. "Fine. Dean will get his training, and I won't stand in the way of whatever wisdom he decides to pass on to his brother. But if at any point I see signs that they're doing something dangerous, or something unholy, I _will_ put a stop to it."

"You do what you gotta do," John replied. "And I'll do what I gotta do. And if everyone does what they're supposed to do, we just might be able to keep those boys safe."

And John wished with all his heart that such a thing was possible, because the idea of seeing either of his sons being hurt by some evil sonovabitch made his blood run cold.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Notes:**

Nothing but schmoopy goodness in this one, ladies. No trauma, no torture or pain. Just goodness and summer fun. Oh wait -- there is blood, though.

You've been warned. ;)

* * *

Chapter 13

Sam Wesley (or maybe it was Winchester, now) liked to think that he was an observant kid. He listened for things; always kept his eyes and ears wide open, never wanting to miss a beat, never wanting to be ignorant. Knowledge was power and when you were ten years old and kind of short and were pretty much at the mercy of your parents for every aspect of your life, with bullies at school and a spoiled little sister at home and a crazy grandmother on the weekends, Sam would take whatever power he could get. Hell, he'd fight for it tooth and nail. So it came to be that Sam Winchester (or maybe it was Wesley) became an observant child, picking up on subtle nuances in expression and tone, reading the expressions of the people around him to gauge their feelings, to predict their reactions.

And right now he could have cut the tension in the room with a knife.

They'd stopped at a roadside family diner for a group dinner and no one could possibly look less comfortable crammed into the cushy red booth than his parents. The fact that Pastor Jim Murphy and Bobby Singer were equally discomfited by the cramped setting and loud atmosphere, squashed as they were between the strangers at the table, did nothing to diminish the positively pained expressions on his parents' faces. It would have been priceless if it weren't so damned awkward.

Dean and Suzie alone seemed immune to the general feeling of unease, or maybe they both just didn't care: Suzie because she was too little to know any better and Dean because he was… well… Dean. His big brother was a bit of a mystery like that: keenly, acutely aware at times and painfully, blissfully obtuse at others. Right now Sam's big brother and little sister happily shovelled food into their faces while the grown-ups made awkward and polite conversation.

Sam found himself wishing that he could talk to his father's friends alone, if only even for a moment, without his parents hovering over him to protect him from the 'devil talk' they were so desperately afraid he'd overhear. These were John Winchester's friends – hunter friends – and they believed as much in the goblins and monsters as John and Dean did. They would know all about the things in the dark that haunted Sam's dreams. They might even know of a way to help protect Dean from that dark shadow ever being able to get to him. It was worth a shot.

As luck would have it, Sam spotted his chance when the gruff old hunter excused himself for a trip to the bathroom. Sam counted a full sixty seconds before nonchalantly excusing himself as well, schooling himself to appear calm and relaxed as he strolled towards the Men's room so that he wouldn't look like the man on a mission he really was. He was surprised, however, to find the grim old mechanic waiting for him inside with his arms folded across his chest, leaning against the wall as though he'd been holding his breath for Sam to arrive.

"Mr. Singer…" Sam stammered.

"I already told ya, it's Bobby," the old man corrected mildly, peeling himself away from the wall slowly to peer down at his friend's youngest son with a cool, penetrating gaze. "Now you mind tellin' me what's got yer panties in such a twist that you gotta follow me to the john?"

Sam blushed.

"I was… I thought maybe…"

"Spit it out, boy."

"You're a hunter, right?" Sam asked hesitantly. Bobby nodded, so Sam cleared his throat and went on. "You know about… protection and stuff?"

Again the man nodded.

"So I was thinking," Sam said, struggling. "Maybe you could help me… I-I want… I need…"

Bobby smiled kindly and crouched down, his knees popping loudly as he did so, to meet Sam at eye level.

"Whaddya need, Sam?"

"I wanna protect Dean," Sam whispered, gulping past the tightness in his chest. "I thought maybe you could help me… with a – a spell or protection charm or something. I know that magic is supposed to be the work of the devil but there's lots of stuff in the Bible that I'm not so sure about and I think that maybe it's not all true because how could God have made the whole world in seven days? And how could all of humanity have been born from one man and one woman and wouldn't that be incest because their kids would have had to get married and have kids so their kids could get married and have kids and that would just be really gross… Plus, there's the whole thing about dinosaurs being around millions of years before God was supposed to have created the Earth, so…"

He trailed off, completely out of breath, and looked hesitantly at Bobby, who was smirking and chuckling softly.

"Pause for breath why don't ya?" he teased.

Sam blushed and offered up a weak, dimpled grin.

"I can't say as I can answer for all the stuff in the Bible," Bobby cautioned. "Though I'm pretty sure a lot of it's a load of crap. Some of it, though… Some of it's danged real, boy."

Sam nodded. He believed in God and in angels, and he believed that there were some important rules, like not killing people and not cheating or lying, that were probably universal laws that weren't to be broken. But not eating shellfish? That probably was the crap Bobby'd been talking about. There were also things outside of the Bible, like from other religions, that Sam suspected were also true.

"I think if we performed a spell your Mommy and Daddy might just have their heads explode," Bobby said thoughtfully. "So maybe we'll work out some kind of charm. That sound okay?"

Sam nodded earnestly, feeling relief wash over him.

"I'll search around, see what I can find," Bobby promised him.

When they returned to the over-crowded booth, no one was the wiser; and Sam relaxed into the padded cushion, satisfied within himself that he'd be doing his part to keep his big brother safe.

888

_John Winchester is a genius_. The thought occurred to Peter for the nth time in as many days, but still he couldn't hold it at bay. It was undeniably, emphatically, true. He didn't know how the man could possibly have the cure-all method of dealing with his troublesome eldest son, particularly when he'd been behind bars for the better part of five years, but it was a simple matter of fact that John Winchester could play Dean like a finely tuned fiddle. And his instructions for dealing with the foul-mouthed, strong-willed teen proved to be invaluable.

'_Tire him out,'_ the ex-marine had instructed during their visit at the jail. _'When he gives you lip, make him drop and give you twenty, or fifty. Give him laps in the pool, or make him run around the block for a good hour or two. Have him on lawn-mowing duty for the whole damned neighbourhood when he steps out of line. Keep him busy with manual shit so that he's wiped out during his free time.'_

Peter had been shocked and appalled at the very suggestion – at first. The idea of putting a kid through his paces like a dog learning tricks had seemed so abhorrent, especially because it felt somehow cruel and overly demanding. But the fact was Dean was silently screaming for some kind of guidance, some kind of structure or direction, and his father's 'training' looked like the perfect solution. With a difficult task to accomplish, Dean had a purpose. He had something to be proud of when it was completed. He had something to keep him busy, keep him active. He had private and personal goals to beat, a father and foster-father to impress or approve of his hard-won battles. The kid was proud of himself when he managed a two-hour run in the Arizona heat without passing out. He positively glowed with determination when he swam fifty laps without pausing or batting a lash. He was perversely content to be run nearly into the ground with exhausting 'manoeuvres' that any other kid would have balked at.

The transformation in Dean was an amazing thing to behold. Gone was the haunted, skittish, flinching teen who'd kept to himself, only to come out of his shell in the presence of Sam or Suzie. This new Dean-in-training was confident, talkative, jocular, and light-hearted. He joked and smiled and teased, a cocksure grin making him look handsome and self-assured. He slept better – had fewer nightmares in which he woke up screaming or crying in the night. And he was bulking up at an impressive rate. The skinny, sickly-looking, pale-faced kid who'd begged Peter and Jane not to tell Sammy about who and what he really was, what he'd really been doing in New York, was long gone. A tall, muscular, tanned, _confident _teen took his place.

Dean's therapist was most impressed with the progress the boy had made. She noted many changes in his attitude, particularly regarding some of the more brutal aspects of his past. He wasn't exactly open with the doctor – that simply wasn't Dean's way – but he was definitely less hostile, was more willing to confide in her when the mood struck him. He talked about his father and his family and his goals in life.

The group therapy was awkward at first, but they soon managed to find a rhythm that worked for all three of them. Dean didn't say much: he observed patiently and added an explanation or two when the situation called for it. Jane and Peter, on the other hand, got a lot out of the sessions. They were able to voice their concerns about Dean's behaviour, and their own reactions to it, with the help of the family therapist to filter their thoughts for them, to needle them for the right wording, the best way of representing their fears and doubts as parents. Mostly Dean just scoffed, constantly assuring them that they worried too damned much, that parenting wasn't 'freakin' rocket science.'

He was easy to please, they learned. Dean didn't need much, and never asked for anything. Unlike other kids, who begged for this toy or that gadget, wanting the latest in expensive footwear or trendy clothing, Dean was happy with having the bare necessities. He bought his own clothes at a local thrift store, much to Jane's dismay. And no matter how many times the Wesleys assured him that they would pay for his things – that that's what parents did – Dean insisted on doing it himself. He didn't like trendy clothes. _'They're gay!'_ he'd explained with a pained expression. His personal items were few: an old walkman he'd bought at a yard sale and a stack of tapes he'd collected here and there at pawn shops and used record stores. He only ever listened to classic rock anyway, so it was easy for him to find the things he liked at bargain prices.

The only things he seemed to readily accept from his foster parents were movies. The boy loved movies, so both Jane and Peter had latched onto that fact and went about buying movies for him as though they were going out of style. After almost three months of living with the Wesleys, Dean had managed to accumulate quite the collection of VHS tapes, which he watched in his room with his little brother and sister sprawled on top of him on his bed.

He still didn't really have any friends, particularly since he'd basically been blacklisted by most of the parents in the neighbourhood after the Independence Day festivities and subsequent drinking binge. It was ridiculous really: Dean certainly hadn't forced any of the other kids to drink. But he was new, and his background was shady, and it was easier for parents to blame the new black sheep for their own babies' transgressions, insisting that the new kid had somehow corrupted them, than to admit that Mommy and Daddy's little angel wasn't quite the angel after all. But then, Dean himself was grounded for the better part of July, and wouldn't have been free to socialize even if any of the neighbourhood kids had stopped by to seek out his company.

Which was why it was a bit of a surprise when Peter answered the door one Saturday afternoon in late-July to find the eldest Platt child waiting hopefully on Dean.

"Hi Mr. Wesley," the gangly teen had said. "Is Dean home?"

"He is," Peter said, trying to hide his own grin. He had the most ridiculous urge to rib Dean about having a girlfriend, particularly because poor Angela Platt was not the kind of girl Dean would ever have looked twice at. She was all limbs and skin and bone, gangly and goofy-looking with a mouth full of metal braces and glasses that took up a large portion of her face. Her freckles were dark with the sun and her shoulder-length brown hair was frizzing its way out of a ponytail.

This child, Peter knew, hadn't been banned from socializing with Dean-the-problem-child. The Platts were notorious partiers and swingers – flirting with anything that moved and attending wild parties across the globe. Their two kids, Angela and Adam, were unfortunately left behind most of the time, cared for by a respectable nanny who didn't set many boundaries and who basically allowed the kids to do whatever they wanted. It was lucky for the Platts that Angela and Adam were naturally docile and well-behaved, otherwise they'd have had two hooligans on their hands.

"He's actually just finishing up some school work," Peter said regrettably. "I can let him know you stopped by."

"Oh." Her face fell as she shuffled her feet awkwardly. "On a Saturday?" she queried, squinting in the sun.

"He's finishing up summer school," Peter explained, regretting now that he'd told her Dean was busy. It was true that the boy was up to his elbows in work – next week's Navy Seal training would cut into his studies and he was poring over his books in a frantic effort to get ahead so that he could go do his training without falling behind. September wasn't that far off on the horizon now, after all. But still, he didn't have any friends, and the therapist had made it clear that socializing was an important part of Dean's recovery.

"Oh," Angela repeated, clearly disappointed. "I'll just… I'll come back later, I guess." She turned to leave and Peter decided 'what the heck!' and called to her to stop.

"I'm sure he wouldn't mind a visitor," he said with a smile. "He's probably due for a break now anyway. Why don't you come in?"

"Okay!" she said, a little too eager, and stepped inside.

Peter had her wait at the front door and made his way quietly down the hall to Jane's old office, where Dean was studiously plugging away at his work, hunched over the desk with his chin resting on his hand, his brow furrowed in concentration. He jumped when Peter called his name and pushed the book he'd been reading away with an aggrieved sigh.

"Having trouble?" Peter asked.

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face and shook his head, as if to sprinkle the sleep away like droplets of water from a wet dog's hide.

"Just read the same paragraph four times and I got nothin'," he complained warily. Then he straightened in his chair somewhat. "You want somethin'?"

"You have a visitor," Peter said, the urge to tease Dean back in full force.

Dean arched a questioning eyebrow.

"A girl," Peter went on, quirking a playful grin.

The boy immediately perked up. "Yeah?"

Peter nodded.

"She's waiting at the front door."

Dean was up in a flash, his handsome face breaking into that mischievous grin both Peter and Jane had grown to love, in spite of all the trouble it promised to bring. Quick, confident strides brought Dean to the front door where he stopped abruptly, nearly skidding to a halt, at the sight of the gangly girl who was decidedly not Jamie Anderson.

888

_Aw, crap!_ Dean thought. _Who the hell is this?_

"Hi!" the girl said brightly, a little breathless. She was wearing the most ridiculous pair of pink shorts with large, yellow sunflowers on them Dean had ever seen, with a matching yellow tank top that was so bright it was blinding, in a mustardy kind of way.

"Uh… hi," Dean replied. Vague memories of this girl's face swam before his mind's eye. She was at Derek's party, Dean was fairly certain. He thought maybe he'd talked to her. He remembered her smiling a lot – grinning like a star-struck teen. And they'd talked about Sam.

'_Oh God!'_ Dean thought with a flush to his cheeks, memories resurfacing of himself blabbing to this girl about his little brother like Sam was the second coming or something. _'I did that pansy-ass blubbering drunk thing talkin' about how much I love my baby brother. Fucking shoot me now!'_

"You're uh…" he scrambled through his memory banks for a name. "Angela…? Angela, right?"

At the beaming smile she returned to him, he knew he'd gotten it right. Impressive, considering how drunk he'd been for the greater part of the party.

"I was just going to go to the park to play Frisbee. Wanna come?" she asked, holding her breath and looking so damned hopeful Dean didn't have the heart to say no. And really, who was he to say no anyway? It wasn't like the neighbourhood kids were breaking down the door to hang out with him.

"Um… sure, yeah," he heard himself saying. "I'm just gonna let Jane and Peter know where I'm goin'."

That done, there were no obstacles left to prevent him going to the park to play freakin' Frisbee with this weird-looking, googly-eyed girl, who very painfully obviously had a crush on him. He should have said no and figured he'd regret not having done so, but there was nothing for it now. He'd stupidly said yes and by and by found himself at the park with the sun beating down on his head and the girl grinning at him as if she'd just asked him to marry her or something.

He groaned inwardly.

"Here's a good spot," she said brightly, snaking a bony arm into the knapsack at her back and extracting a fluorescent green Frisbee.

Dean's eyes scanned the area, making sure that there weren't any kids nearby to get hit with the plastic disc when it went astray or to get run over if either he or Angela had to dive for it to catch it. While his eyes were busy scanning, the nervous Angela was busy throwing. Her aim was good – though perhaps a little too good – and strong. The disc caught on a pocket of air and zipped straight ahead.

Right into Dean's face.

He'd been turning to give her the thumbs up to begin when the Frisbee caught him square in the nose, blinding him instantly with white hot pain. He yelped, his hands flying to his injured face, shocked and breathless and blinded by the impact.

"Jesus fuck!" he swore, already feeling the warm gush of blood on his top lip.

"Oh my God oh my God!" Angela cried, rushing towards him on trembling legs. "I'm so sorry! Oh God I'm so sorry!"

Dean tilted his head back and pinched the bridge of his nose. _Christ it hurt!_

"Is it broken?" the girl asked, her voice trembling with unshed tears. "Oh God, is it broken?"

"m'okay," Dean mumbled, trying not to get blood in his mouth. The truth was it hurt like a sonofabitch. There were tears in his eyes from the watering sting, but he wasn't about to let her see that. He kept his head up and back, his eyes squeezed shut against the pain, and also so that he wouldn't have to look at her. Freakin' clutz!

"Here, take this!" Angela said, pushing a cloth into his hands.

Dean paused, turning slightly in her direction and cracking an eye open to peer at her in blatant disbelief. He eyed the cloth like it was the most curious thing he'd ever seen, eliciting a puzzled frown from the trembling girl.

"You do this kinda thing often?" Dean asked, snatching the cloth with a huff and wiping the blood away from his mouth and chin before tilting his head back again.

"Huh?"

"Breaking other peoples' noses your MO?" Dean pressed, mildly amused now. Because seriously, who the hell carried spare cloths in their freakin' book bags? "You go for the schnoz in some kind of staged 'accident' and then swoop in with the 'Never fear! I come bearing cloths!' Florence Nightingale routine?"

"I didn't do it on purpose!" Angela protested, horrified at the very suggestion.

"Yeah, that's what _you_ say," Dean countered while trying not to smirk at her dismay. He dabbed at his top lip and nose again, relieved to see that the bleeding seemed to have stopped. Still stung like a mother, though.

"Look, Dean, I'm really sorry," Angela repeated as she deflated and resigned in defeat in one loud huffed breath. "I'm just gonna… go… I guess."

Dean rolled his eyes and tossed the bloody rag so that it hooked onto her shoulder. She startled, nearly jumping out of her skin, and instinctively flicked the sullied towel off of her bare shoulder.

"You're a strange one," Dean said with a smirk. "First you lure me out here and injure me. Then you ditch me to go home and mope. I gotta say, this is the suckiest game of Frisbee _ever_. And also, probably the shortest."

The poor girl looked positively frazzled and dismayed now. Her eyes looked huge behind those Coke-bottle glasses, but now they were practically bulging out of her head. She grimaced and Dean caught sight of that hideous mouth of metal, wondering why in the hell anyone would ever put themselves through that kind of torture. Then again, he amended, he'd always taken such care with his teeth that he supposed if he'd been cursed with some kind of troll mouth he probably would have opted for braces too. Still, it had to suck ass.

"You gonna bail or are you gonna let me totally kick your ass with your weapon of choice?" Dean taunted, lifting the Frisbee from the ground and shaking it in the air like a tambourine ready to be jangled.

"Bring it on, blondie," Angela retorted.

888

Dean Winchester was better than she'd imagined he'd be. She remembered from the pool party that he'd been full of bravado in the face of kids much older and bigger than him. That had piqued her interest. And he was gorgeous – that certainly didn't stack up against him in the eligibility department, either. But it was when he'd started yammering on drunkenly about his kid brother that Angela decided she liked him. The surface stuff was all part of his image, and one she imagined he'd been cultivating for quite some time. He was tough, no doubt about it. And she had no doubt that he could probably back up any threat he made, given how clearly active he was. She'd seen him running laps around the neighbourhood, performing strange military-style work-out runs through the playground.

But underneath all the tough guy stuff was a real heart, and it was buried so deeply inside that only his little brother and that cutie Suzie Wesley seemed able to draw it out. It was sort of mesmerizing to watch, really. Angela knew from that moment of the party onward that Dean Winchester was someone she wanted to know.

And okay, if she was honest, he was also someone she wanted to marry. But those were girlish fantasies that she knew she'd have to squash because he was so very handsome and she was so very, very plain. She'd seen the disappointment on his face when he came to the door and realized that she wasn't someone else – whoever it was he'd been hoping was at the door. She'd seen him take in the sight of her and decide whether or not he was going to waste his time humouring her.

If she had any pride she'd have told him where to stick it and gone home.

But Angela Platt was a lonely girl of thirteen, soon to be fourteen, and she clung to the things she held dear for fear she'd lose them forever. Her instincts told her that Dean was one of those things, though very few would ever realize what a treasure they had in him. It was like there was a light inside him that burned really bright, but it was at the deep end of some dark cavern, and you had to grope blindly through the black, stubbing your toes along the way, before you could reach the light.

She wanted to touch that light. She wanted him to look at her the way he looked at Sam: like she was precious and worth fighting for. Maybe he'd cling to her the way she clung to her baby brother. Maybe he'd be her friend and, okay, back to fantasizing, her husband when they got married and had lots of babies.

Right now she'd settle for Frisbee combatant, though.

She squinted in the sun and watched as he ran for the Frisbee, which she'd deliberately let fly into a high wind that would carry it well past where he was standing across the field. With the reflexes and speed of a wild cat, he sprinted through the grass, angling himself underneath the whizzing disc and hurtling himself in a graceful tumble to the ground, rolling back to his feet with a triumphant "Hooyah!" and a grin that split his face clean in two.

He should be a model, she thought. He had such perfect skin, which stood out golden brown against the white wife-beater he was currently wearing. He'd long since lost the t-shirt he'd been wearing, and Angela had to bite her lip to keep from drooling.

_He's barely a year older than you_, she told herself. _But he looks like he's at least sixteen!_

It was true. He'd grown taller since he'd first arrived in Phoenix. She'd seen him around, and being the cute boy that he is, she'd noticed him. He had definitely grown, his shoulders looking broader in contrast with his narrow hips.

She was pondering the smoothness of his skin and the perfection of his lips, failing to hear the panicked cry of, 'Hey, heads up! Angela!' when there was a sudden flash of neon green and then _thunk!_

Pain erupted in her mouth with the sharp stab of metal through flesh, and the coppery tang of blood had her squeezing her eyes shut.

"Jesus!" Dean's voice cried from further afield. "You okay?"

Angela kept her eyes squeezed tightly shut even as they burned with tears, her whole mouth throbbing from the collision of the flying projectile with her unsuspecting face. God it hurt! Her lips were already puffy and the inside of her mouth felt like ground hamburger, tender and torn and bleeding from where her braces had cut through her flesh on impact.

"Angela!" Dean called, closer now as he ran to her side. "What the hell were you doing, you freak?"

At that she opened her eyes and peered blearily up at him. It was then that she noticed that she'd slunk to her knees at some point after being hit.

"Are you okay?" Dean asked, and she could see the concern on his face as his green eyes blazed with combined worry and anger.

She nodded weakly.

"What were you doing?" he pressed, crouching down and cupping her chin with one of his big hands. She felt a flutter stirring in her belly. It was strange that a boy who was so pretty and soft-looking should have such big hands.

"One second you were watchin' and then the second I let the damned thing fly you're starin' at nothing waiting to get clobbered in the face."

He had the longest eyelashes she'd ever seen on a boy. Pretty, pretty eyes, she thought.

He grinned at her and wiped a stray tear away with his thumb.

"This is the part where I'm supposed to whip out my own cloth with the 'Never fear!' routine, right?" He waggled his eyebrows until she returned his grin with a reluctant, tight-lipped smile.

"Well forget it, sister. No way no how am I ever doin' anything that lame. Now if you'd needed a light, I'd totally be there as the knight in shining armour with the zeppo all _whah_," he said breathily and he waved his hand out languidly, as if extending a flaming lighter to ignite her hypothetical cigarette.

"You're kinda weird," she said.

"Yeah, well I'm not the one who made us both bleed today," he retorted dryly.

"I was thinking," she sulked.

"About what? How to lure the next unsuspecting guy out to the park so you could clobber him in the face with his Frisbee?"

"Stop," Angela pleaded half-heartedly.

"At first I thought you were just a sadist," Dean went on. "With your whole carefully crafted plan to make me bleed. But now I see you're a masochist too. Fuck – no one's safe when you're out for blood. Not even you."

She giggled helplessly, feeling both mortified for having gotten so lost in her daydreaming that she managed to embarrass herself yet again, and heartened at his playful teasing.

His eyes widened when she laughed and he winced in sympathetic pain.

"Christ!" he exclaimed. "Those braces sure did a number on your mouth. You want some water to rinse or something?"

It was kind of gross tasting her own blood so she nodded yes. In a heartbeat Dean was up. Angela watched as he made a quick sprint across the field toward the playground where a vendor had set up with his hotdog stand. She watched as Dean butted his way through the small line-up, pointing in her direction so that the vendor could see her where she was sitting on the grass, and proceeded to buy something. The whole exchange took less than a minute, and before she knew it he was sprinting back to her side, twisting the cap off a sweating cold bottle of water and lowering it to her lips so that she could take it in her own hands.

"Never fear!" he quipped with a flourish as he eased the bottle down for her to reach it. "I come bearing water!"

Her heart pitter-pattered in her chest at the sight of his megawatt smile and Angela found herself wondering if it was possible to fall in love at age thirteen – almost fourteen – and at first sight, no less.

888

So it turned out ugly chicks weren't so bad to hang around with. Granted, Angela Platt was pretty high up on the weirdo meter. Seriously, the thing with the spare cloths was just a bad omen or something. But she could run pretty fast with those freakishly long, skinny legs, and when push came to shove she was pretty tough. He liked that. It meant he didn't have to hold back and could give the Frisbee a real hefty throw. He did have to be careful of the braces, though.

He winced in sympathy every time he thought about her bloodied mouth, which even now as they walked home was still a little swollen.

Still, all in all, Angela was all right. She talked a lot, about anything and everything, and had opinions on just about every subject.

"I mean, what are the chances of marrying three different women named Catherine even if you've been married six times?" she demanded of no one in particular. "And two Anne's! Two!"

"Maybe he was profiling them like Ted Bundy," Dean offered.

"He was the King of England, Dean, not a serial killer," she scoffed.

"Whatever." She was the history expert, not him. He couldn't tell you who the current Queen of England's husband was, let alone name Henry VIII's six wives.

"So what were you working on?"

"Huh?" Dean was slightly dazed, her constant chatter making him zone out.

"Summer school… cooped up inside on a Saturday in July…" she prodded. "What were you working on?"

"Oh," Dean sighed. "English." He felt his shoulders slumping fractionally. Damn he hated English. It was stupid and pointless anyway and he really sucked at it. In every other subject he was really excelling, especially math and science. His hard work was really paying off and his tutors assured him that he was definitely ready to begin grade nine level work. But English? His reading was painfully slow, his comprehension level low, and his critical thinking skills practically non-existent.

The pressure was really on now because Albright Academy had certain standards (a fact that had been drilled home often of late by the surly old Wesley patriarch, Abraham) and unless Dean was able to score high enough, there was no way they would allow him to attend in the Fall. Part of him thought that might be a good thing – give him the chance to attend a regular public school instead of being forced into the sissy, yuppy prep school where he'd have to wear a damned _uniform_. But the very idea of telling Abraham Wesley that he'd failed, that he couldn't get his grades up enough in English to meet their minimum requirements – that he was essentially stupid and couldn't read and work at grade nine level in his own freakin' language – made him feel light-headed and dizzy with anxiety.

"You need any help?" Angela offered hopefully.

His Winchester pride chose that moment to rear its ugly head.

"Why?" Dean demanded. "Because you have a freakin' PhD in Annoying?"

He regretted the words the moment they'd left his lips and wanted to kick himself when he saw the hopeful glint in her eyes dwindle and then snuff out, like a gust of wind blowing out a candle. Her metal-mouthed smile fell and she turned her eyes to the ground.

"Shit, I'm sorry!" Dean apologized. "I'm a dick. I don't know why I said that."

"You're a real jerk, you know that?" she said tearfully as she raised her eyes to glare at him angrily.

"I know, and I'm sorry," Dean repeated. "Look, I'm an idiot, okay?"

Angela sniffed and nodded. "Yeah, you are."

"Literally," Dean added, grinning weakly. "I mean literally – I'm an idiot. Looks like Sammy got all the brains in the family. I can't… I mean I'm not…"

She watched him with her arms folded across her chest, eyeing him skeptically.

"You're really gonna make me say it, aren't you?" He heaved a heavy sigh when she made no move to speak.

"Listen, I'm not good with this whole… thing," he struggled, gesturing vaguely at some intangible thing in the air. "I don't really do the whole… talking thing."

Angela scoffed.

"You talk plenty," she accused. "Sure can shoot your mouth off when the mood hits you."

"But see, that goes back to me being an idiot," Dean explained. "I'm like the king of shootin' the shit. I come from a long line of bullshitters. Or… well, at least my Dad's like the crowned King of BS."

"That I would believe," Angela said dryly.

"But I don't…" He gave her a pained look. "This whole _'talking'_ thing totally sucks, okay? I blow at it and am much, much better at pissing people off. See? Got you all fired up and angry with one line."

"You're gifted," she quipped.

"I'm sorry I called you annoying." It was a lame attempt at an apology but it would have to do.

Angela shrugged and stared at her feet as they resumed walking.

"Do you?" She bit her lip in thought. "Do you think I'm annoying?"

"Nah," Dean waved her off. "You're all right, I guess. You're a freak – but annoying? Maybe not so much."

"Fair enough," Angela conceded. "Being a freak isn't so bad. I'd rather be a freak than be normal."

And that, right there, was why it wasn't so bad hanging out with a gangly, ugly, googly-eyed chick.

"I could help you, if you wanted," she offered. "But only if you leave the asshole attitude at the door."

"Huh?"

"With your English." She rolled her eyes as if he were exceptionally dense. "It's my best subject, so if you wanted some help I could always come by and go over your work with you. Maybe coach you on some stuff."

"Why would you do that?" Dean found himself asking. It was awfully nice of her to offer, but it was strange, too. People didn't offer help without having strings attached.

Then he remembered her crush and thought maybe he knew what she was doing here. A few one-on-one sessions with her crush to provide her with ample opportunities to 'get close'… It seemed like the cheesy kind of thing a geeky chick would do. Would it be wrong to accept her offer? Would it be leading her on, or taking advantage?

"Because we're friends," Angela replied, her exasperated expression clearly painted in 'well duh!' lines.

_Friends, huh?_ Dean thought with a huff. _Wonder when that happened_.

888

With his belly full of spaghetti and his mind wandering back to the day's events, running over Frisbees and googly-eyed girls and laughter and shared blood-letting, Dean found he was most definitely not making any progress on his book. Granted, reading in bed wasn't always the best idea, especially when you'd just stuffed your face full of pasta and garlic bread and were tired and sleepy as hell. His eyes felt gritty and drooped, his head sagging forward so that his chin was barely tapping at his chest. He would jerk awake with a start, startling himself, and then resume reading, but it was no use. Sleep was beckoning him and she was a demanding mistress.

"Dean?" Sam's voice and light knock had him bolting upright, his book jumping out of his open palms like a slippery, wet bar of soap.

"Christ!" Dean hissed, clutching at his chest to steady the impending heart attack-inducing beating of his heart. "Don't sneak up on me Sammy, Jesus!"

"Sorry," his ten year-old brother replied, though he was grinning that dimply grin of amusement. "I just wanted to give you something. A gift."

Honestly, this day kept getting weirder and weirder.

"Huh?" Dean asked, completely perplexed. It wasn't his birthday and he was pretty sure it wasn't a gift-giving holiday, either.

Sam bit his lip and approached the bed cautiously, a small package held tightly in his small hands. Dean's eyes strayed towards the intended gift with a bizarre feeling of just plain oddness. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been given a gift. After Mom died holidays and birthdays had kind of fallen by the wayside. Sometimes Dad would remember to buy them a little something cheap at a thrift store, but more often than not the gifts had been hunting related. And even so, it had been five years since he'd seen his last Winchester holiday or birthday.

"What is it, Sammy?" Dean asked with a throat that felt suddenly dry. "If it's just your little boy cooties, you can forget it!" he added with a grin.

Sam rolled his eyes and huffed, giving his big brother a stern look before holding the intended gift out with a slightly trembling hand.

"Here," he said – more like ordered. "Take it. It's for protection."

Dean smirked at Sam, his only weapon of defence against feeling emotionally vulnerable and open in moments like this. He willed his own hands to be steady as he took the proffered gift and felt its light weight settle into his palm. It was a small package, no bigger than his palm, wrapped up in newspaper. Taking a deep breath, he began unwrapping it, casting his eyes up occasionally to watch as Sam watched him, his big hazel eyes open and eager and anxious.

"Wow," Dean whispered. He really didn't think he had the words to express more than that.

Inside his palm, carefully wrapped within the folded newsprint paper, was a gold amulet attached to a black leather band. The face of the amulet was strange, kind of Egyptian looking, and carved with weird sprouting horns and a kind of placid, expressionless face. It was solid and kind of heavy for its small size, but the weight felt right in his hand.

"How did…?" he stammered. "Where did you…?"

"Bobby found it for me," Sam explained with eyes as big as saucers. "I wanted to get you something that you could wear so that you would be protected. It's not much," he said lamely. "But I just wanted to get you something. Do you like it?"

Dean nodded, keeping his eyes firmly set on the gift in his hand, and swallowed past the lump in his throat. It was the best gift he'd ever been given. And it had come from Sammy – Sammy who remembered him now, since going to visit their Dad in Leavenworth. Sammy who had given it to him for no reason, with no special occasion to warrant it, but just because he wanted his big brother to have it.

"I love it," Dean managed to say, then slung it over his neck without further ado because his little brother was watching him as if he might swallow his own tongue.

"Fits perfect," Dean grinned.

Sam grinned back, relieved and satisfied and looking intensely proud of himself. As the weight settled comfortably against his chest, Dean decided then and there that he would never take it off.

**End Notes:**

So what do ya'll think of Angela? I've tried for years to picture what kind of friends Dean would have had if he had any kind of stability, and as much as I think he'd be popular in school (because LOOK AT HIM), I also think he'd attract a rather strange element. And as much as he's all about being Mr. Macho, his best friend in the world is his little geeky brother. So I can see Dean surrounding himself with a very few close people who meet certain needs in his life. He will have other friends (ones you all might be more easily able to picture him hanging around with in public), but I can see Dean being drawn to someone like Angela in a situation like this. And of course, the girl is equally drawn to him because she's kind of been abandoned herself and is attracted to his whole fierce "family" thing and because LOOK AT HIM! lol.

Hope you liked this chapter! Reviews are like candy from the heavens. :)


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Notes:**

Just a short chapter here (or short for me, anyway). I'm wrapping the summer up beore we start school, but there's quite a bit that happens so I'm going to be breaking the summer down into 2 or 3 chapters. Here's the first installment. I hope to have the next one ready soon(ish). And if I've done my job well, you'll all have a certain song mentioned in this chapter stuck in your heads. ;)

* * *

Chapter 14

When his father warned him that training with Navy Seals wouldn't be a cakewalk, he really, really wasn't kidding. Every square inch of Dean's body ached, throbbed, or screamed plaintively for reprieve, from hours of gruelling exercises. When he wasn't slogging through mud with two hundred pounds of gear on his back, he was struggling through obstacle courses designed for men twice his body weight and many inches taller than him. Not to mention the fact that he was expected to keep up with the rest of the recruits who were training with him – all of whom were fully grown men who'd already gone through basic military training and had been in the armed forces for several years. Dean was fourteen and, though physically fit, was nowhere near their calibre.

Being fourteen didn't earn Dean any special treatment or favours, either. He was expected to hold his own or go the fuck back home: and going home was _not_ an option. So Dean did what he did best. He grit his teeth, sucked up his pride and any and all feelings of inadequacy, and he got the job done. He pushed himself harder than he'd ever been pushed before. He approached each new task with a tenacity that rivalled the Energizer Bunny. He scaled insurmountable walls and landed proudly on the other side, to the complete amazement and surprise of the other, older men training with him. He struggled through it all and, by some miracle of God, made it through.

At first it had been very hard and he'd been tempted several times to just give up. The other recruits hadn't taken kindly to being trained with a kid – which they saw as insulting to their own macho pride and indulgent on the part of their superiors. They took him for some spoiled rich kid getting a taste at being a tough guy, and their ribbing and needling and insults had been downright hurtful.

But he was a Winchester, and a soldier, and he knew how to buck up and take his lumps. He knew that military units were all about order and respect and he wasn't about to sulk about it or complain like some whiny bitch. So he took their comments about him being a pretty boy. He took their crude jokes about him being a spoiled rich kid using Daddy's influence to play at being a real man. He took their laughter and derision about being weak and unable to keep up.

But when one of them made an off comment about his bandy legs and what _that_ implied, Dean decided that enough was enough and gave a little back.

"Don't know what you're playin' at kid," Herschfelder, a stocky jarhead with rusty red hair and freckles covering every inch of his hard-muscled body commented with a sneer. "You can pretend to be a man all you want – but we seen the way you walk."

Dean had done his best to ignore the comment, opting to focus instead on making his bed while the others milled about in the bunkhouse. It wasn't the first time someone had made fun of his legs, and it wouldn't be the last. Still, it was an incoming insult that he'd be hard pressed to choke down, because he knew where it was going.

"Now, as I was sayin' to the guys," Herschfelder went on. "There's one of two ways a guy gets a swagger like yours." He grinned and a few of the other recruits snickered.

Dean continued to ignore them. If he got angry and showed it, Herschefelder would only get confirmation that his insult had stung, or worse yet, that it was true. So Dean pushed his feelings way down and fought hard to maintain the cool mask of indifference that had already carried him through the rougher moments in his life.

"Either you're a cowboy and you've spent your life in the saddle," the redhead drawled. "Or..." he paused, waiting for Dean to raise his eyes to meet his. Dean's heart was pounding in his chest, but he did his best to look unaffected.

"Or," Herschfelder continued, his grin widening when he saw that he had Dean's full attention. "Or someone's been ridin' _you_. And by the looks of that cocksuckin' mouth of yours, I think we all know which _position_ you're most comfortable in."

The other men laughed harder, some of them 'ooohing' in acknowledgment of the proverbial line that the taunting recruit had just drawn in the sand. Dean didn't rise to the bait, but wasn't going to sit back and ignore it. No way did an insult like that go without comment.

"Maybe," Dean said with a shrug, getting up casually to stroll towards the lumbering freckle monster so he could peer up at him with his best, most well-practiced smirk.

"I'm guessin' by the way you've been makin' eyes at me since I got here that you'd know all about porking little boys."

"Ho-hoah!" the crowd laughed incredulously.

Dean leaned in close, close enough that he could smell the man's deodorant, and tilted his head up, licking his bottom lip slowly and peering up through his long lashes with cocky, languid grace.

"Either way, it doesn't matter," Dean smiled brazenly, bordering on a sneer. "I wouldn't let you touch me with a plastic one."

He proudly sauntered away to the sound of uproarious laughter as the remainder of the men in the barracks guffawed good-naturedly at Herschfelder's expense.

And later that day when it came time to practice hand-to-hand combat, Dean gladly laid the pompous dick flat on his ass with a few well-aimed and well-timed punches. He used his smaller height and weight to his advantage, zipping beyond the man's striking reach with fluid grace and ease, economizing his movement, saving his energy, and striking hard and fast when the moment presented itself. Herschfelder went down without managing to land a single blow.

From that moment onward Dean was given a wide enough berth. The older trainees didn't bother him, and occasionally even opted to help him out when it looked like he was going to drown or pass out or kill himself during an exercise. They didn't spit in his food or hide his bedding anymore, and when the two weeks were up he received more than a few well-wishes before he left. Several of the men had even been so good as to get him stumbling drunk in celebration of his surviving two weeks of Navy Seal bootcamp.

_A little taste of hell_, Dean thought ruefully, sighing in contentment as he sat slumped in the bucket seat of the Wesley's minivan. The hangover wasn't so bad – not nearly as bad as the 4th of July hangover – and he had the excuse of training to mask it. 'God my muscles are sore!' he'd groan, and Peter would wince in sympathy and return his eyes to the road. Dean couldn't wait to get back to the house to call his Dad and tell him about how things had gone.

It hadn't been the full training – the recruits would be there for another six weeks, minimum, before they were finished – but it had been more than enough for Dean regarding weapons and combat training. He felt certain even his Dad couldn't have taught him some of the moves and tactics that he'd learned with the Navy Seals, and a part of him was itching to get the chance to try some of them on the old man when he got out of jail. It would be beyond sweet to be able to beat his Dad some day, considering his Dad was the strongest, most badass hunter Dean had ever heard of.

Nobody stirred up any kind of fuss when Dean got home and made his way to his room to crash and sleep for a million years – a definite bonus. Sam was at a friend's birthday party and so Dean was spared the endless questions. Thank the god he didn't believe in for small favours. Suzie, on the other hand, was literally bouncing on the bed with excitement at his return. She didn't ask questions like Sam would: instead she showed her enthusiasm in a much more visible, physical way. She climbed on his back like a monkey, she scrambled over his lap and nearly drove her knee into his crotch in her attempts to peel him away from the bed because 'It's daylight and you're not s'posed to be sleeping in the daytime, Dean!'

Eventually they settled for watching a movie. Dean dozed and Suzie spilled cracker crumbs in his bed. That squawking brood of brats sang and danced onscreen and Suzie sang along, horribly off key but looking and sounding so cute Dean had to crack an eye open to watch her, a smile ghosting across his face in spite of how bone-deep _tired_ he was. Then in the afternoon Dean got up and had a snack and took Suzie to the pool, where they played Marco Polo and other assorted games until they were wrinkled to prune-like perfection. Sam returned from the birthday party early in the evening, so full of questions and 'Can you show me how to do a choke hold?' and enthusiasm that Dean found himself grinning so much his face hurt.

When he fell asleep that night it was with the almost unnerving feeling that maybe things were going to be okay. Dean drifted off without the intrusion of painful memories or nightmares, his whole body relaxing into the bed as he allowed himself to feel at home for the first time in five years.

888

She never would have thought it possible, but the boys visiting John Winchester in prison had been the best thing that could ever happen to her family. Ever since then Dean was like a new person: vibrant, confident, and so alive with restless energy it was almost infectious. And Sam, too, seemed to step out of his own self-imposed shell, as though a heavy weight had been lifted from his small frame, allowing him to breathe freely for the first time in months. Jane hadn't wanted to think about it too deeply, because it made her worry about all the ways that she was failing her little boy, but he'd been often-times subdued since Dean arrived. He worried and fidgeted and hovered like a mother hen, and no matter how many times she told him it was her job to fuss, Sam had insisted on being his big brother's protector.

But now he was all dimples and smiles again, full of natural little boy energy and enthusiasm for summer sports and games and _food_. Good lord, the boys were like bottomless pits, eating everything in sight and then some! With Dean around Sam was more active, always sparring and playing and rough-housing, and the constant activity called for frequent refuelling. She would swear the boys were going to get fat if she didn't see with her own eyes that they were constantly moving.

She shook her head in wonder at the ingenuity of their eldest boy, who seemed able to stir up trouble even when he was trapped behind a desk and buried in school work for eight hours a day. He could make a game out of anything, Jane figured.

With August underway, time was really of the essence with Dean's schooling. He had three weeks left to get caught up and pass all his entrance exams for Albright Academy. The pressure was on. They were all confident that Dean would pass the majority of his subjects, math and science with flying colours, but English was still proving to be a problem. That Platt girl Dean had befriended was a real help, but there was only so much reading a below-level reader could do in a few weeks' time, and the truth of the matter was that time and practice would prove to be the best tutors where his reading, writing and comprehension skills went.

Which was a real problem in light of certain traditional Wesley vacation plans.

Sam was over the moon excited about their yearly trip to the beach house in Long Beach, which the Wesleys had been doing since before Sam or even Dean was born. He talked about surfing and jet skiing and entering the sand castle building contest with barely contained enthusiasm, getting Suzie more riled up by the day. The two of them talked about it non-stop, promising Dean that the food and games in Long Beach were better than anywhere else in the world, buttering him up for what promised to be the best family vacation ever.

Neither Jane nor Peter had the heart to tell the kids that they wouldn't be able to go this year. She thought about lying, claiming that Peter couldn't get the time off work, but there were a variety of reasons that wouldn't work – number one among them being the fact that Sam would know it was a lie. Peter had booked the time off months ago and everyone knew it. Besides, lying was a sin Jane really would rather not commit, unless someone's life depended on it. But the truth felt like a sin too.

How could she let them down with the truth? It would be a major disappointment to Sam and Suzie: it would be devastating to Dean. He was the reason they couldn't go.

'He's still behind with his English,' Peter had said despairingly, ringing his hands through his hair as though he could strangle some kind of solution out of the soft, brown strands. 'If we go it's likely he won't be caught up enough to pass the Admissions exams.'

'We can't _not_ go,' Jane had admonished. 'He'll know it's because of him – because of his schooling. He'll think he's ruined our summer!'

'I know.' Peter had sounded so defeated and helpless. 'Honey, I don't know what to do. I don't know how to fix this. He's been working so hard…' And he'd looked at her with his big brown eyes pleading. 'He _deserves_ a vacation!'

In the end they'd been left with no solution and the heavy weight of disappointment tasting of ash on their tongues. They couldn't go. It was as simple as that. They would have to forego their yearly summer trip to the beach house so that Dean could finish up his summer studies and pass his exams. Still… Telling them that they wouldn't be going was a task neither parent was keen on doing.

They were supposed to tell them at dinner, but somehow all the throat-clearing and foot nudging under the table, amongst many secretive and significant looks, couldn't make the words come for either Wesley parent. Dean had inevitably dropped his utensils with a heavy sigh and commanded that Peter and Jane should either spit it out already or go gargle with some salt or something. They gave up their abortive attempts and ate in silence.

It wasn't until late evening, just before Suzie's bedtime, that Peter finally mustered the courage to speak. The kids were all gathered in the living room, sprawled in heaps on the couch and loveseat in front of the television, their eyes glued to the screen as they watched "The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II: Secret of the Ooze" for the dozenth. Sam was lying on his back on the loveseat with his feet up on the backrest, and Dean and Suzie were sprawled on the couch, Dean with his head on the armrest and Suzie lying comfortably on a pillow on his legs. The boys were laughing uproariously, throwing their heads back at the pathetic excuse for witty banter in the film, while Suzie laughed at the jokes because she actually thought they were funny. When Peter stood in front of the television to get their attention, all eyes turned reluctantly to him.

"Hey, uh… you guys got a minute?"

Suzie yawned and stretched and then surreptitiously poked a small finger into the underside of her big brother's foot, eliciting a startled yelp and knee jerk from the lounging teen. Dean mussed her hair and sat up straighter, tucking the recently-tickled foot into the cushion of the couch to safe it from further little sister attacks. Sam, Peter noticed, stiffened and sat up at full attention.

"Your mother and I have talked it over," Peter began. "And we've decided that…" He tried not to gulp at the prospect of continuing on. By the rigidity of Sam's back alone, Peter knew that there would be one heckuva fight coming when he finally broke the news about their cancelled vacation plans.

"We're going to bring the Platts along with us to Long Beach," Jane suddenly burst in, looking flushed but intensely relieved. Her eyes were bright and she was smiling broadly.

"What?" both Dean and Sam exclaimed at the same time.

"Why?" Dean asked.

Peter wondered the same thing, actually.

"Well," Jane hedged. "I was talking with Vicky the other day and she said that she and Robert were headed for Greece for a function, and she was saying how much she regretted not being able to take Angela and Adam on any kind of proper vacation this year, so… I thought we could take them with us."

Peter was about to argue, or call his wife aside to ask her what she thought she was doing inviting more kids along to a vacation they couldn't take, but his wife stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Now Dean, I know we've promised you a vacation, but you'll still need to put some school work in," Jane said somberly. "Since Angela will be there, she can probably help you out with some of your English assignments. If you get stuck…"

_My wife is a genius_, Peter thought. If they brought Angela along they could ensure that Dean put in a few hours' worth of work every day, with Angela there to help him out – which of course she would. The girl was in love with Dean, as far as thirteen year-olds were capable of being in love. Also, having Angela on the trip would provide Dean with a bit of a reprieve from his big brother duties. He'd have someone his age to hang around with so he wouldn't be tempted to spend all his time looking out for Sam and Suzie and missing out on his chance to just be a free, normal kid his age.

Peter tried not to think about the fact that Dean would never really be a free, normal kid his age. The poor boy's scars were too deep for that.

Sam was clearly excited at the prospect. He scooted forward to the edge of the couch, nearly hanging from his seat, his face alight and his cheeks dimpling.

"Hey Dad, can me and Dean and Adam and Angela rent jet skis? I can ride with Dean and Adam can ride with Angela."

Peter frowned. "We'll see."

"So wait," Dean said, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You're bringing the Platts all the way to California with us because their parents asked you to?"

Jane shrugged.

"The Bible says 'Love thy neighbour,' Dean." And Peter thought maybe his wife was smirking.

"Right!" Dean snorted a laugh. "And this has nothing to do with the fact that I still suck at English and Angela's been helping me out? And my entrance exam is three weeks away?"

"You don't suck at English," Jane admonished. "And I don't appreciate the language."

Peter nodded in agreement.

"You're just behind, is all," she said more tenderly. "The Platts are good kids. Angela's your friend, isn't she? I'd think you would want her to come."

Dean shrugged and pouted in thought. "She's my friend, sure. But it's not like I want to live with her for two weeks."

That much Jane didn't doubt. Dean was such an intensely private person that somehow 'bonding' had become something of a four letter word in the Wesley house. Anything that looked like it promoted 'closeness' was '_lame_' or '_gay_' or '_pansy-assed_' in his book, and he shrugged it all off with the same casual indifference with which he approached most things. She worried that he wouldn't bond with anyone other than Sam and Suzie, that his friendships would never be closer than casual acquaintances. She wanted Dean to have people that he could turn to – people other than just his family. He needed people he could rely on to protect his fragile heart, people he could confide in.

"It's only two weeks," Jane scoffed casually. "Besides, it'll be fun."

"Right… fun." Dean didn't sound convinced. "Most kids think it's a laugh riot when their parents bring their tutors along for family vacations. That's how you spell F-U-N."

"His spelling's improving," Sam quipped with a dimpled smile. "Angela's definitely a good influence."

Dean's retort was lost in a series of shouts and a tangle of limbs as he leapt off of the couch and tackled his little brother. Skinny arms and legs flew in a mad flurry to deflect and defend, but Dean was much bigger and much stronger, his reflexes honed and his movements efficient and precise. Within a matter of moments Sam was pinned on his stomach, his arms held behind his back as his big brother straddled him and grinned triumphantly.

"Right, well…" Jane said. "I'll leave you guys to get back to your movie."

She and Peter grinned the entire way to their bedroom, the distant sounds of bickering and plaintive whining from Sam to be released and Dean's orders that Sam had to admit he was a girl fading in the background. It would be nice to hit the beach for their first ever family vacation with their newest addition, both Peter and Jane agreed silently.

888

Dean was lucky he didn't get carsick. He sat with his back to the door, propped up against it, his feet tucked up on the seat next to hers as he read aloud. Angela felt a little jealous of him for that because any kind of reading in a moving vehicle made her head swim and her stomach roil. It was vomit-inducing with 100% accuracy. Even now, with Dean reading aloud and her listening, it was hard to focus on the words, to check his pronunciation and clarify for him for words he didn't understand, while the van made its way along the highway. Motion sickness was this traveler's worst enemy. She would much rather listen to her walkman and tune out the drive altogether, but Dean had insisted that the six hour drive would be a perfect opportunity for him to get some work done – _'more time for fun in the sun when we get to California, Ange.'_

At first she'd hated him calling her 'Ange.' It sounded so… mono-syllabic and nonsensical. _Ange_. Everyone else called her Angie, which she infinitely preferred to _Ange_, but Dean was having none of that. He would hiss as though in pain whenever anyone called her Angie, and when she asked for an explanation it was always the same.

"_Angeh_," he would sing plaintively. "_A-haaain-geh!_ _When will those clouds all disappear?_"

And that was enough for her. He could call her whatever he wanted so long as it didn't involve his bad (though admittedly hilarious) imitation of the Rolling Stones. Besides, it was kind of cool that he had a nickname that only he called her. It was special somehow. Private. Theirs.

She watched his lips as he stumbled through his reading, looking slightly pouty as he mumbled out the words on the page, pausing every now and then to look up at her for reassurance or confirmation or correction. She thought maybe she could stare at his lips all day and not get tired of it – and with him busy reading, he didn't even notice her looking. It was win-win, really.

Sam, Suzie and her little brother Adam were sharing the bench seat in the middle of the van, leaving her and Dean free to fill up the two-seater in the back. It was cool because it was darker in the back, further away from the windows and the glaring sun, and they had the illusion of privacy. Dean also had a secret stash of junk food in his knapsack that he laid out for her perusal, offering up the candy and chocolate and chips as thanks for her help while they drove. He was always good like that, sharing what he had.

". . . _'he's more myself than I am,'" _Dean read._ "'Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same, and Linton's is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire.'_"

He paused and pursed his lips in thought a moment.

"Why the hell is she marryin' this ass?" he asked at length.

"Because she couldn't marry Heathcliff," Angela replied.

Dean sighed ran a tired hand over his eyes.

"See? This is why I hate this book. It's freakin' stupid. That Catherine's a bitch and she's marryin' some guy she doesn't even like. And Heathcliff's a dick. They're both so evil that getting married to anyone else is just… wrong."

"Way to sum up _Wuthering Heights_, Dean," Angela grinned. "Just keep reading."

He huffed and shot her an irritated glare, but continued.

"'_My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods. Time will change it, I'm well aware, as winter changes the trees - my love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath - a source of little visible delight, but necessary.'_"

He heaved an aggrieved sigh and dropped the book in his lap.

"I swear to God, this book is so gay I can actually feel my balls shrinking up and turning into ovaries!" he whined.

Angela ignored him and opted instead to resume with the tutoring.

"Any elements of speech in that last passage?" she quizzed.

Dean flopped back against the seat with another huff and opened the book, his lips resuming their pout as he pried the weathered pages open to scour for the passage to reread it.

"Uh… simile?" he said hopefully, his brow furrowed in a question. "Because…" building more confidence. "She's comparing love with something else – in this case _'the foliage in the woods'_ – using 'like' or 'as.'" Then he grinned triumphantly. "Simile."

Angela grinned back.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Notes:**

Got a treat for you ladies -- this chapter is up and ready (many days early). See how much I love you? We've got some more schmoop, and then some angst added in.

Some slightly disturbing dream/nightmare content. You've been warned.

* * *

Chapter 15

Okay, so it wasn't exactly the smartest thing to just step out of the shower naked without grabbing his towel first. But honestly, how was he supposed to know that Sammy had come in to brush his teeth? Didn't the kid freakin' knock? And to be fair, Dean was used to having his own bathroom in his own bedroom, where he didn't have to worry about being modest or covering up or locking the door. So really, it was an honest mistake.

Sam's startled yelp and subsequent eye-covering, toothpaste still dribbling out of his mouth, made the mishap _well_ worth it.

"What the hell, Dean?" Sam demanded through the minty froth in his mouth, his eyes squeezed shut tightly as he groped blindly for the tap so that he could rinse.

Dean snatched his towel from its resting place on the toilet seat and carefully draped it around his hips, chuckling to himself at his baby brother's obvious dismay.

"You should be careful," Dean cautioned with a chuckle. "You're starting to sound like me."

Sam spat the last remnants of toothpaste down the drain and made a gagging, choking sound that Dean was pretty sure had nothing to do with oral hygiene.

"Now would be a good time for God to smite me or strike me blind!" the kid complained, eyes still squeezed shut, one arm draped over his brow as if to shield him from further traumatizing torment.

"Dude, will you chill out?" Dean laughed. "I've had a towel on for like the last minute and a half."

"I'm scarred for life, Dean!" Sam whined. He lowered his arm tentatively, peeking through squinted eyes as though afraid to catch some gory scene from a horror movie.

"Yeah? You only wish you looked half so good, little brother," Dean teased, easing himself out of the bathroom with another chuckle. He paused at the doorway to his bedroom down the hall and shouted back over his shoulder, "And for the record, you're the one who decided he couldn't wait to brush his teeth. _You_ interrupted _my_ shower, dude. I didn't exactly invite you in."

"You could have warned me you were coming out!"

"I didn't even know you were in there!" Dean countered.

"Well maybe if the shower wasn't your own personal concert hall you'd have heard me come in!"

Dean huffed.

"Whatever pervert," he muttered. For good measure.

Dean locked the door behind him, just to be on the safe side, and sidled over to his suitcase to retrieve a clean pair of swim shorts.

When they'd arrived at the "beach house" Dean had expected it to be some kind of chalet or cottage. He'd been wrong. The Wesleys' beach house turned out to be an honest to God house. On the beach. The backyard had a huge patio with a bar and a barbeque big enough to serve the whole training camp of Navy Seals Dean had met, and there was a well-manicured garden of flowers and exotic-looking plants along the perimeter. The veranda looped around the entire house like a giant, sweeping porch. It wasn't nearly as big as the Wesleys' house in Phoenix, but it was clean and it had four bedrooms. It was also fully stocked with appliances and a TV and stereo system in the living room.

Quite the nice summer getaway. Last night they'd arrived and had had barbeque chicken and potato salad, and one of the neighbours had come by with his guitar and had jammed some tunes that Dean was happy to note were not ever recorded by Crystal Gail or Amy Grant. Then they'd had a campfire on the beach and Dean had had roasted marshmallows for the first time ever and they'd told ghost stories after Suzie went to bed and Jane and Peter went inside. Angela and Sammy and Adam had been all wide-eyed wonder, huddled together in the flickering light, shoulders tense and mouths practically agape as Dean told some of his favourites. All in all, it was a pretty good night.

Now with morning in full swing and the sun shining and the waves crashing nearby, Dean was totally geared up to go to the beach and get totally sunburned and surf and do every other stupid, fun, dumb kid thing he could think to do on a beach. Because really, he hadn't been to the beach since he was four, when Sammy had been just a tiny baby and Mom had had to stay with him on a blanket on the sand while Dad ran through the surf with Dean on his shoulders, squealing in delight when an errant wave managed to sprinkle him with water.

Dean liked the beach, even if it meant he had to wear shorts (or in his case, swim trunks).

The rest of the gang were all waiting for him when he emerged from his room. Sam and Adam were itching to get started on a sand castle, and they had buckets and shovels and seashells that they'd collected earlier that morning to use as 'finishing touches' – more proof that his little brother was, in fact, a girl. Angela was standing there subconsciously in a striped one-piece bathing suit with a towel clung tightly to her chest. And Suzie, looking like a little mermaid in a glittery pink frilly bathing suit, was beaming up at him, her hand held aloft for Dean to take it to lead her outside.

"Mom! Dad!" Sam called. "We're goin' now!"

"All right!" Jane's voice shouted from somewhere down the hall. "Just don't go beyond where I can see you!"

And with that they all trundled out into the morning sun.

It was sheer awesomeness. Dean loved the way the hot sand burned his feet, loved the feel of the cool sea air ruffling his short hair, loved the steady, lulling call of the waves as they crashed gently on the sand. There were people everywhere: families gathered in packs around blankets and towels and coolers and, occasionally, large, tented umbrellas to shield them from the sun. There were kids running into and out of the water, chasing the waves and being chased in turn, while others with the same idea as Sam and Adam tried their inexpert hands at building sandcastles. Further along the shoreline Dean could see groups of people flying kites, and not far to the left of where the boys had planted themselves with their buckets and shovels to begin their master creation of architectural genius, there was an assembled group of young men playing volley ball.

_Awesomeness_.

"All right, Suzie Q," Dean said brightly. "Whaddya wanna do?"

"Swim!" she chirped, dancing on the balls of her feet as she hopped in the hot sand.

"Swimming it is," he replied with a grin, plopping his bag and towel on the sand next to Suzie's. "Race you to the water, Ange."

Angela had dropped her towel and gave him a hard look.

"You think you can beat me, Winchester?"

"I know I can," Dean smirked.

"I wanna race too!" Suzie chimed in. "Me too, Dean!"

"All right, then. Last one in the water's a rotten egg!"

Dean sprinted forward a good twenty feet before making a good show of tripping dramatically, arms flailing and legs going akimbo as he deliberately face planted into the grainy, shifting hotness of the sand beneath his feet, the warmth seeping into his bones like a warm blanket and it felt so good he thought he might like to stay there and just bask. He didn't want Suzie to lose, after all.

But Suzie was squealing with delight because she wasn't the last one in the water, and Angela was taunting him with accusations of being a big goof, and the ocean was lapping at the shore at him in invitation, saying, '_Come on in, Dean. I know you wanna_.'

So he scrambled to his knees with a broad grin and barrelled into the surf with a war cry that sent Suzie into fits of giggles and made Angela shriek shrilly when she realized he was taking her down like a linebacker.

888

This whole being in love with Dean Winchester thing really wasn't going to work. He was stupid and conceited and way too much of a bad boy for her to even contemplate him having any kind of real potential as a boyfriend. They had almost nothing in common. He was loud and obnoxious and, again, conceited, and he liked freakin' classic hair band rock crap and only read car magazines – and that was at a snail's pace. She was reserved and witty and well-read and liked to think of herself as something of a fledgling intellectual. She read Jane Austen and wanted to go to college to major in English and maybe write novels or be a journalist some day. She listened to musicals and was obsessed with the Beatles and anything that came from the 50s or 60s British invasion or Motown scene.

They were like oil and water.

Plus there was the whole he-doesn't-know-I'm-alive in the girl sense thing. That didn't help her chances, either. She'd known when he'd been less than thrilled to see her at his doorstep almost a month ago. But it was made all the more painfully real when he failed to even take notice of her in her bathing suit. Granted, it was plain and one-piece and didn't really show off her lack of curves. But he hadn't even looked at her, as though there was nothing _to_ look at.

Other girls he saw plain as day. She watched as his head swivelled in the direction of a hot chick in a bikini as she sauntered past (though without her glasses all Angela could make out from that distance was a fleshy blur), his jaw hanging slack as he gaped at her in full blown teen boy ogling.

"Take a picture, it lasts longer," Angela had quipped, when really her heart was twisting in her chest at the sting of being completely invisible to him.

And it was so hard because he was _right there_ (and even without the glasses she could make out every curve and detail of his form if he was close enough, which he plainly, achingly was), looking like some kind of Greek god with his golden skin and his sun-bleached blonde hair and his edible spattering of freckles across that perfect nose and those delicious cheekbones. And with Suzie riding piggyback on his back, her small feet flailing madly as she was pummelled by the waves when Dean ran headlong into them, and the toe of her foot would catch in the waistband of his shorts just so, and they would drag down just enough for Angela to see virgin white skin peeking sinfully beneath those damnable blue shorts, the firm mound of one butt cheek barely peeking out to say hello as Dean and Suzie laughed at the onslaught of waves and Angela stared drooling like some kind of pervert.

Their laughter drew her from her own full blown teen girl ogling and Angela heaved a sigh. That right there – the megawatt smile on his face that wasn't plastered on or conjured up for someone else's benefit – the blissed out enjoyment Dean Winchester got out of playing with his new little sister, or his biological baby brother, when he saw them happy and having fun, was the reason Angela felt her heart go pit-a-pat in her chest every time she looked at him. It was the air behind every sigh, the gazer behind every longing look. Dean came alive for the people he loved, unabashedly, unashamedly, and without reservation. Sure he wasn't one for words or grand gestures. He didn't do with the 'feelings' or the 'talking,' as he'd dubbed it, but he was always there as this steady, solid presence, always drinking in every moment as if it were a thing to be cherished forever. He could try to mask it with jokes or gruff words, but his eyes lit up with life and put the lie to all his assertions of not doing 'chick flick moments.' If he only knew that his loyalty and the intensity of his love, the endlessness of his devotion, were so beyond chick flick… They were the kinds of things that chicks salivated over and wrote angsty poetry about.

Angela sighed and bucked up her brooding thoughts. She would just have to get over it. Dean was a force of nature and she couldn't turn his head in her direction any more than she could turn the tide or make the sun rise in the West.

But she could settle for being his friend. He was a good friend, in spite of the constant teasing. He liked to play games and do outdoor things, and he was fun to watch movies with. He and Sam showed her and Adam how to do some basic self-defence and martial arts moves, and sometimes they would all rassle or 'spar' with Suzie acting as referee. Dean was fun to be around, spinning wild tales off of the top of his head that would have her doubling over with laughter and begging him to stop so she could catch her breath.

So she could settle for being his friend. She could _not_ look at the broadness of his shoulders as he grew into adulthood. She could distinctly _not_ notice the slight scruff creeping along his jawline and upper lip from where he'd recently started shaving and was now having to do it more often. She could _not_ stare at his lickable lips when he was reading and doing his pouty face, which he would be mortified to learn he did. But friend or no friend, girlfriend or hopeless crush, she couldn't _not_ look at his eyes, which truly were the windows to his soul.

"Hey retard!" Dean's voice called from somewhere behind her, snapping her back to attention.

Angela turned in time to see, or rather hear, him snickering with Suzie about something he'd whispered to her while Angela had been lost in a daze. He was standing on the sand now, hot clumps sticking to his glistening wet feet, and looking mildly curious as Angela plodded ahead through the water to meet the two blondes on the shore.

"What?" she demanded.

"I asked if you wanted some ice cream," Dean shouted back, slowly enunciating every word as if she were deaf or else ridiculously slow.

"Uh, yeah… sure," Angela replied. "As long as they've got chocolate."

Dean quirked an eyebrow. "Would have taken you for more the vanilla type."

"Shuddup," Angela pouted, checking him with her hip as she made her way to her towel and began drying off next to Suzie, who was squinting up at Dean in the sun as he rifled through the pockets of his knapsack. Angela snaked a hand into Dean's knapsack to retrieve her glasses, which she'd stashed in there with his permission, and slid them back onto her plain face with a sigh. Both girls slipped their feet into their respective flip-flops in preparation for the journey to the ice cream shop.

"All right, I think there's one just down the road. Sammy!" Dean hollered. "We're goin' to get ice cream. You wanna come?"

Angela chuckled as both younger boys scrambled away from their dilapidated sand castle on hot feet at the magic words 'ice cream.'

"Want me to run up to the house to get money from Dad?" Sam offered.

"Nah," Dean waved him off. "I got money."

"For all of us?" Sam asked, eyes wide.

"No, just for me 'n Suzie," Dean scoffed, ruffling Sam's shaggy mop. "You and Adam and Angela will have to just lick up whatever drips off our cones. _Yes _all of us."

The ice cream shop, as it turns out, was actually a corner store with an ice cream counter inside it. The five assembled kids, two Wesleys and one Winchester (or one Wesley and two Winchesters, depending on who you asked), and two Platts, made their way double-file down the busy street, Suzie once again perched like a queen on Dean's back. The walk took them about fifteen minutes, which would have been less if Sam-the-Boy-Scout hadn't stopped at the house first to tell his Mom where they were going, and by the time they all filed inside stomachs were grumbling for ice creamy goodness.

"Can I get two scoops Dean?" Sam asked hopefully as he ran his hungry hazel eyes over the assorted flavours on display through the glass window of the counter.

"Whatever you want, Sammy," Dean grinned.

Angela found herself blushing when it was time for her to place her order. True it was only ice cream, and it wasn't like Dean was breaking the bank paying for her or anything. And it wasn't like he was just buying ice cream for her, like it was some kind of date treat or something. It wasn't. She knew that. But still… He was paying for her, and he was heavenly to look at, and why oh why didn't he like her back?

She watched as the boys slurped greedily at their cones while Dean made his way to the small selection of movies along the far wall.

"Sweet! 'Pet Cemetery'!" he exclaimed excitedly, waving her over. "You seen this yet, Ange?"

She shook her head no.

"Isn't it supposed to be pretty scary?" she asked hesitantly. She didn't exactly do scary movies, though she knew Dean loved them.

"It's awesome! We so gotta watch it tonight."

"The minute you bring that thing home the Wesleys will make you take it back," she warned him, knowing it to be true. "There's no way they'll let us watch it."

He smirked and waggled his eyebrows.

"Watch and learn," he muttered as he turned his back and perused the aisle until he'd found an old tattered copy of 'Trains, Planes and Automobiles.' He carefully extracted the movie from the case and swapped it with 'Pet Cemetery' – so smoothly she almost wouldn't have seen it if she hadn't been watching and learning.

"Piece of cake," he said with another wide smile. "We ready go to?"

More ice cream slurping and three young nodding heads were his reply.

"Super!"

Dean made his way to the line-up to pay for his movie. There were a few customers ahead of him, among them a huge pot-bellied guy with dark hair who was taking his time purchasing a pack of smokes. When he turned to grab for his wallet Angela could have sworn she saw Dean's face drain of all colour. He seemed frozen on the spot, staring with haunted eyes at the man at the counter as he fumbled with large hands through his pockets with an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.

The man turned to sneak a quick glance at the line-up behind him and Dean stumbled backwards, tripping over Angela's foot and falling with a strangled gasp to the floor. His ice cream planted on the dirty linoleum with an audible splat but Dean took no notice of it. He was too busy staring at the burly cigarette-smoker with a look akin to terror marring his handsome young face.

Everyone in the line-up turned when Dean fell and the man in question peered down with mild interest. He turned around completely to take a good look at the terrified boy on the floor.

"You okay, kid?" he asked.

Dean blinked at the man and then gulped. Angela was a complete loss to explain his sudden shift into abject terror, but the moment passed so quickly she didn't have much time to ponder it.

"Fine," Dean muttered, shaking off the battered child mask with a literal shake of his head that looked more like a shudder. He wiped his hands off on his damp shorts and offered a weak smile by way of apology.

"Musta tripped," Dean said. Angela noticed that he avoided making eye contact with anyone.

It was a tense few minutes while they waited in line. Dean kept his eyes resolutely ahead, as though he were intent on burning a hole through the candy rack with his smouldering eye beams, and Angela had to wonder what had gotten into him earlier. Had he recognized that man, or mistaken him for someone he recognized, someone he was clearly afraid of? And who could he possibly know that would strike that kind of fear into him?

She decided she would ask him, though deep down she knew he likely wouldn't give an answer. He didn't talk about life before the Wesleys. Whenever she asked, he shrugged it off and made evasive answers or quipped ridiculous jokes about how he fell from the heavens or how the Wesleys bought him at a slave auction in Russia. She knew better than to press it because the last time she'd done it he'd closed off completely and suddenly remembered an important chore he had to do before Peter and Jane totally grounded his ass.

Dean Winchester didn't talk about his past, and she would lay down money he wasn't going to talk about this, either. Still, he was her friend and she was going to at least try.

He was all big fake smiles and affected ease on the walk home, but Angela could see the slight tremble in his hands when he leaned forward to allow Suzie back onto her piggyback perch. That encounter had shaken him.

888

_Way to go, Winchester_, Dean chided himself derisively. He tried to keep his smile in place as he plugged along the road with Suzie on his back and Angela at his side, constantly casting these worried, googly-eyed glances in his direction as though he might break and start crying any second. He wanted to kick himself again and again for being such a pansy-assed freak, for going all trembling-like-a-leaf instead of relying on the skills he'd been working to hone _all fucking summer_ when that guy nearly gave him a fucking heart attack.

He'd thought for sure for one terrifying moment that the man at the store counter was Vinnie. One glimpse at that dark hair and pot-bellied profile had produced a moment of sheer heart-stopping terror. Suddenly he was frozen, thinking of all the things Vinnie would do to him for running out on the John, for running out on him and stiffing him for a grand without putting out. He had flashes of Sammy and Suzie falling under Vinnie's cruel predatory gaze, those huge meaty fists beating their innocence away, choking their goodness down to the darkness where Dean dwelt. He'd thought Vinnie was _right fucking there_, intruding upon his fucking family, destroying the peace he'd hard won, perverting it until it was unrecognizable.

And he was ashamed of himself because he hadn't done a damned thing, offensively or defensively, to protect Sam or Suzie or even Adam and Angela. He'd just frozen in place and clammed up, panic gripping his insides and stealing the breath right out of his lungs. Whether it was Vinnie or not, Dean should have been prepared to protect his family, and instead he'd just broken down like a fucking helpless kid.

He was such a waste of space it was amazing anyone put up with him. Honestly.

"Where's your ice cream?" Suzie asked between happy slurps of her own minty-chocolate cone.

"I dropped it."

She stretched a small, chubby hand across his shoulder, nearly mashing the cold treat into his unsuspecting nose as she offered it up a little too closely to his face from her perch behind him.

"Want some of mine?" she offered hopefully.

He would have said no but Angela was watching him and behind those big glasses her eyes looked like they were analyzing him from behind a microscope, and he suddenly imagined she could look right into him and see all of what he was feeling and he wanted to just make her freaking stop, so he tilted his head forward and speared his lips into the soft frozen treat to mow off a chunk.

"'anks," he said over a numbed mouth full of ice cream.

When Suzie offered him another bite he leaned in once again, only to have the ice cream pushed into his face. He sputtered and the girls laughed, and behind him Sam and Adam were laughing, so Dean got his revenge by tickling the underside Suzie's knees. She squealed and Angela laughed and Dean just prayed that Dean's deer-in-headlights moment from the store was forgotten. He so did not want to revisit that.

Later that night when everyone was asleep and he and Angela were curled up together on the couch with 'Pet Cemetery,' Dean tried his best to convince himself that those times were over. He was with a good family in a safe place where no one could hurt him anymore. And his Dad was gonna get out of jail, hopefully in the next couple of years, and then the Winchesters would all be reunited and they'd fight evil together, and stupid fuckers like Vinnie would be little more than a distant memory.

Angela had a death grip on his arm, her fingers scrunching at the sleeve of his T-shirt as she clung tightly to him. She'd said she didn't really have the stomach for horror movies and _damn_, she really wasn't kidding. She twitched and jerked and nearly jumped out of her skin every time one of the characters on the screen moved. At one point she went so far as to bury her face in his shoulder, which might have been kind of sexy if she wasn't Angela. But whatever. This wasn't really the Thriller, now-here's-the-time-for-you-and-I-to-snuggle-close-together kind of moment anyway. It worked fine on TV, but in real life when a girl was scared shitless of a movie she really didn't give off any kind of 'let's make out' vibes. And Dean would know, because Angela was always looking at him like she wanted to eat him alive or something. The fact that she wasn't now was proof enough that she was about ready to shit her pants.

And if he was honest with himself, he was feeling pretty guilty about that fact now. It was his stupid idea to get the movie, and she'd only gone along with it because she was his friend. She'd even made a half-assed attempt to talk him out of it, which he'd scoffed at and ignored. Man he could be a dick sometimes.

"You want me to turn it off?" he offered quietly when he felt her whole body trembling against him.

She shook her head no.

"I need to know how it ends," she whispered resolutely. "If I don't see them kill that creepy little kid I'll have nightmares about him being under my bed. I need to see him die. _Again_."

"I could tell you how it ends," he suggested.

She halted in her shivering and peeked up at him with those huge googly eyes.

"Wait... you've seen this before?"

"Yeah."

She hauled off and punched him hard in the arm, an angry, incredulous scowl on her face.

"What? I told you it was awesome!" he defended.

"I'm sitting here suffering through this piece of crap freaky-assed movie and you've already seen it? God I hate you!"

And she punched him again for good measure.

"So I'll turn it off," he reasoned as he reached for the remote.

"NO!" she hissed, clamping a hand down on his wrist. "I told you, I've got to see this thing through now. I'll never sleep again unless I see the resolution."

So they watched it through to the end, Angela punching him every time something scary happened as punishment for making her watch something she didn't want to watch that he'd already seen. By the end of the movie his arm was tender and aching, and Angela was a jiggling mass of terrified jelly.

"I really hate you," she muttered feebly as she pried her trembling limbs from the couch to make her way towards the bedroom she was sharing with Suzie. When she got to the door she paused and bit her lip in thought.

Dean waited in the hallway and watched her.

"What?" he asked.

"Can I sleep in with you?" she asked sheepishly.

Dean was pretty sure his eyebrows raised into his hairline.

"Come again?"

"Can I sleep in with you?" she repeated, blushing profusely. "You can make fun of me for it later, okay! I'm just... I don't think I can sleep tonight..."

"Suzie'll be in there with you," Dean whispered. No way did he want Angela in his bed. It would be... weird. The last person he'd shared a bed with was Vinnie, and he well knew how that had turned out.

But Angela was shaking her head no and biting her damned lip again.

"Please Dean... _I'm scared_."

And damnit, it was his freaking fault she was scared because he'd made her watch the damned movie in the first place. He rolled his eyes and heaved a very obvious and pained sigh.

"Fine," he grumbled. "Just don't... touch me or anything."

"Like I would," she scoffed. But he knew better, and she knew better, though neither of them ever said anything about it aloud. They both knew that if he so much as hinted at touching her she'd melt in his fucking hands.

"And you'd better go back to your own bed in the morning before Peter and Jane see you. They'll think we're screwing or something if they catch you in my room."

"Okay," she promised.

_This is why having friends sucks_, Dean thought.

888

He was sleeping the sleep of the dead, sinking into the black and wading through it with a lazy smile, like floating on one of those pool chairs and basking in the sun: only this was darkness brought to life and given touch and taste. This was the welcoming embrace of nothingness. He drifted on grasping tendrils of nothing, slipping into the void, as those tendrils became fingers, and fingers stroked through his hair, and a voice on the wind brushed past his ear.

"You feel so good," Vinnie's voice whispered.

Hands. Hands everywhere, holding him down, pushing him through the darkness until it ceased to be nothing and became matter. Matter became mattress. Peace became Hell. Sleep became nightmare.

Fingers probing him, invading him, stroking him within and stirring him to wakefulness, to arousal, returning him to the reality of his body. The void of nothing was gone – long gone – and he was back in New York in Vinnie's bed. Naked. Pinned. Probed.

"Stop!" he gasped. "Don't!"

But when had Vinnie ever listened? Husky laughter in his ear that made him shiver, and suddenly he could feel that fucking body weight on top of him, could feel flesh against flesh, could smell stale beer and cigarettes, could feel beard stubble against his neck.

"You're mine, Dean!" Vinnie whispered as he ran rough hands along Dean's spine. "You belong to me. I paid for you. I fucking bought you!"

"No!" Dean pleaded, squirming for release. This couldn't be fucking happening. He'd gotten away. He'd gotten far away, with the Wesleys. And Vinnie was in New York.

"You'll always be mine, Dean!" Vinnie purred as he used his strong legs to pry Dean's struggling limbs apart.

"Don't!" Dean cried as panic and helplessness washed over him, consumed him. "Please no!"

He tried willing himself to wake up from this nightmare, but the weight on his back felt so real, the warm, sticky flesh clinging to his felt so tangible, that he couldn't believe it wasn't real. He could smell the spring fresh detergent of the sheets, could feel the cheap cotton scratching against his naked belly and thighs.

And then Vinnie was pushing his way inside and there was nothing Dean could do to stop it. Pain tore him open and he screamed and thrashed. The man's thrusts were brutal, possessing and breaking him as he rode out his sick lust on Dean's unwilling body.

"I told you to watch your back, son," John Winchester's voice rang out from somewhere near the doorway.

Dean opened tear-filled eyes to see his father standing at the door to his bedroom – not Vinnie's bedroom, not the apartment in New York – wearing his prison uniform and looking so disappointed and lost.

"What was all that training for, Ace, if you can't even protect yourself from one fat, old pervert, huh?"

"Dad!" Dean pleaded, but it was like he had no voice. Each thrust knocked the wind from his lungs and sent new showers of agony to cascade over him. There was so much heat building up inside him he thought surely he would burst into flames. Fever. It must be the fever. From the infection.

"Dad! 'M sorry! Help me please!"

"This is what you are, Dean," Vinnie taunted in his ear as he pulled his hips back and then slammed forward with skin-slapping impact. The pain of it caused Dean to choke on his own spit as he sobbed and pleaded for mercy.

"You can't run away from me! You can't run away from what you are!"

"NO!"

He closed his eyes and grit his teeth and squeezed, his whole body locking rigid, curling in on himself into a protective ball. The weight on his back morphed as Vinnie melted into something else. Darkness swallowed Dean whole as he wrapped himself in a cocoon to keep the grasping hands at bay so that they wouldn't have anything to grab hold of.

When he opened his eyes again it was still dark. He was alone in the darkness, twisted up like a pretzel with tiny walls pressing in on him from all sides. He couldn't move. Couldn't get free. Couldn't see or hear. It was all-encompassing darkness, but unlike the velvety, milky smoothness of the black landscape of dreamless sleep, this was harsh, like rough vinyl or canvas scraping against his still naked flesh. This was a tomb.

His fingers traced the corners of his black prison and felt cool plastic teeth – a zipper. He followed the seam to each corner until he found the opening, probing a finger through the tight space until the zipper finally gave way, admitting the whole digit, and then another and another until his whole hand was free. He grasped the zipper from the outside with a hand angled painfully in the wrong direction until he'd managed to unzip the seam of his prison enough to fit his whole arm through.

It was then that he realized he was in a suitcase.

"No... Nonono..." _Not here. He wasn't fucking here_.

"I was wondering when you'd work your way out of there," a cool voice called from somewhere across the room.

Dean quickly snatched his arm back and began frantically searching the inner pockets of the suitcase, his tomb, for a weapon. _There has to be a fucking weapon in here. This thing was filled with weapons!_ But his searching came up empty.

"Come on out. Don't be shy. I'm not going to hurt you." A quick, shrill zip and suddenly the world was awash with bright, vibrant light.

Dean squinted at the onslaught and tried to shrink back into the dark safety of his little hidey hole but the John was faster. A large hand clamped around his throat and lifted him effortlessly off the ground, cutting off his air and making his eyes bulge. As his eyes adjusted he could easily make out the huge four-poster King sized bed, the bedside table with that goddamned fucking glass of champagne.

Dean kicked at the man's knees and stomach and groin, anything that would take him out or loosen his grip, but his blows passed through shadow as though the man were mere vapour. And then he was being thrown like a rag doll onto the bed. The John leered at him with cold, grey eyes and shucked off his expensive suit jacket to toss it onto the back of a nearby chair.

"Have you taken your bath to make yourself ready for me?"

He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a single white handkerchief, which he deliberately and painstakingly unfolded with care before refolding it from its original square to a more rectangular shape. Dean watched in horror as the man strode across the room to his suitcases and procured a single bottle that Dean knew, without even seeing the label, contained chloroform.

"This will make things easier," the man said.

Dean tried to ease himself off the bed but when he moved he found himself to be completely immobile. His hands and feet were bound to the four posts of the bed, leaving him naked and spread eagle and at the mercy of the madman intent on slicing and dicing him.

"Got to get my money's worth, Dean," the man sing-songed and it sounded so wrong Dean felt bile rise up in the back of his throat.

"I thought you were stronger than this, kiddo." His father's voice again. So cold. So filled with disappointment. "Your mother would be so ashamed of you."

"Dad..." Dean pleaded as the killer from the hotel poured copious amounts of chloroform onto the handkerchief and approached the bed.

"You're going to Hell, Dean," Sammy's voice said, and Dean was stunned to find his baby brother standing on the right hand side of the bed, leaning toward Dean with wide, frightened eyes. "Angela Platt said that you were doing something disgusting with that girl in the pool."

"No-no, Sammy!" Dean pleaded as he strained against his bindings. The John was taking his time making his way onto the bed with that damned poisoned rag.

"I can't believe I thought you were my friend," Angela's voice came from the left side of the bed. "That man's going to... _do it_ with you and you're going to let him. You want him to."

Any other time he would have made fun of her for her childish inability to actually use the word 'sex,' opting as always to use her ridiculous euphemism 'do it' to describe intercourse, but right now Dean was just so desperate to get someone to listen to him and to help him. Didn't they see that he was tied up, that he couldn't get away?

"No! No! I don't! I don't want it!" Dean sobbed, begged. "I don't want it! Please help me!"

The John was crawling up his body, slithering like a snake.

"Sh-shhh," he whispered. "You're okay. Shhh... You're okay. No one's going to hurt you."

And he clamped a steel hand over Dean's mouth and nose, suffusing all Dean's senses with the sweet chemical burn of chloroform as it seeped into his nose and churned through his lungs and whited out his vision and made the world melt away...

888

She was so nervous lying in a bed next to Dean Winchester that sleep eluded her. He was right there, _right there_, to catch her drooling or to get a real close-up view of her ugly face and decide that she was too repulsive to even be friends with. And suddenly an evil zombie kid with a scalpel wasn't so scary after all. Didn't even come close to this.

She could smell him, smell the beach and sand on his skin, smell the detergent on his T-shirt and boxer shorts, and the faintest remnants of whatever gel it was he used on his hair. He looked like an angel when he slept, all traces of the hard-ass, foul-mouthed tough guy smoothed away with sleep, so that he was all soft angles and those damnably long lashes and those succulent lips parted ever so slightly. And the very thought of just touching him, accidentally or otherwise, made her so nervous and terrified she thought she might throw up.

What the hell was she thinking asking to sleep in his bed? It was by far the stupidest thing she'd ever done. He was her friend and she had a raging crush on him and they were only thirteen and fourteen years old and their parents would _kill_ them if they got caught in bed together. Angela had never so much as grazed lips with a boy before, and she wondered with a deep ache and a belly flutter what that felt like. She remembered Dean at Derek Schuster's pool party, two sheets to the wind from drinking too much whiskey and all hands with that Jamie Anderson in the shallow end of the pool. He knew his way around a kiss, that was for sure.

She turned her back so that she was facing the nightstand and watched the clock as it blinked at her. 2:37 am. 3:04 am. 4:21 am. Her eyes began to droop from sheer exhaustion and then the twitching started.

It was subtle at first, but noticeable. Dean's breath hitched and his body tensed. Angela peeked over her shoulder to see if he was awake now, but his eyes were closed. He twitched again and his left leg jerked. _Having a weird dream_, Angela thought. She rolled onto her back and thought about shaking him to wake him up. He looked tense, like he was a bowstring strung too tight, his fingers fisting the sheets.

_This isn't good_, she thought. _I should wake him up_.

And then he started thrashing, weakly and feebly through the haze of sleep, his head going from side to side in silent denial. He sucked in a gasping breath that sounded an awful lot like a sob and choked out a single word: _stop_.

"Dean, wake up!" Angela whispered, giving his shoulder a gentle shake. "You're having a nightmare, Dean. Wake up."

Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, his upper lip, and then it was suddenly everywhere, like a breaking fever letting loose the floodgates. His skin was aflame as though he was burning up with fever. Absurd thoughts of spontaneous combustion ran through her mind and she suddenly wanted him to wake up right the frig now.

"Dean, wake up!" she hissed, giving him a rougher shake. "Wake up, Dean!"

He moaned and mumbled silent pleas and she thought she heard him say, "Please no." And then he screamed.

Whatever dream world he'd fallen into, it was clear that he was trapped in it now. Angela threw off the covers with trembling limbs and shook him hard.

"Wake up Dean!" she ordered, loudly. "Wake up!"

She heard a crash down the hall and then the distinct sound of small feet on the carpet. Within moments Sam was standing wide-eyed in the doorway, hands gripping the door frame and eyes looking mildly stunned with sleep.

"Sam..." Angela said helplessly. "He just... I can't."

In a flash he was at Dean's right side, kneeling by the bed and grasping his big brother's shoulders to give him a hearty shake.

"Wake up Dean! Wake up!" he pleaded in a frantic whisper. But shaking him seemed to have no effect because Dean was so tense he was practically vibrating, his body rigid like a board.

"Should I get your Mom and Dad?" Angela asked with her heart in her throat.

"It's okay," Mrs. Wesley's voice said, and suddenly both Mr. and Mrs. Wesley were there, taking control of the situation, shooing her and Sam out of the room. Mr. Wesley led them down the hall to their respective rooms, whispering quiet assurances that Jane would take care of everything, while Mrs. Wesley took her place at Dean's bedside to try her hand at rousing him.

And Angela's blood went cold because this scene looked practiced, familiar even, for the family. Though clearly upset at his brother's frantic nightmare thrashing, Sam didn't seem at all surprised. His little hands shook but his overall bearing was one of resigned acceptance, reluctant familiarity. He was used to this.

"Jane'll take care of it," Mr. Wesley assured them again, mostly for Angela's benefit. "You two go back to bed."

He didn't ask her what she'd been doing in Dean's room, for which she was grateful. She guessed he just assumed that Angela had come in when she heard Dean's scream, as Sam had done. He didn't bother trying to explain Dean's nightmare away, either, which was both a blessing and a curse, really. Because a large part of her didn't want to know, worried that knowing the cause of Dean's nightmares would shatter her illusions about the big, strong, fearless boy with the cocksure smile and foul mouth. Maybe Mr. Wesley didn't feel it was his place to offer up excuses or explanations for the boy when Dean could easily do it himself – though Angela knew he wouldn't. Or maybe he was just too tired to get into it at such a late (or rather, early) hour. Either way, the whole ordeal left her feeling shaken and hollow inside, and she eased herself back into bed with the blissfully unaware Suzie with a heavy heart.

She was grateful that the seven year-old slept like the dead and didn't rouse when her shoulders shook with her silent sobs as she cried away her worry and fear for the boy whose eyes made her heart go pit-a-pat. It was girlie and made her feel ten kinds of stupid – it was just a nightmare. People had them all the time. It wasn't the end of the world.

But she'd seen a crack in the foundation. She'd heard panicked gasps, frantic breathing, desperate pleading in Dean's voice. She'd seen terror in his eyes earlier that day at the store, and now he was trapped in a dream where whatever demons chased him were doing their worst – a dream he seemed unable to escape.

So Angela Platt cried for her friend and offered up silent prayers to God to protect his dreams, to shelter him from whatever ghosts haunted him.

**End Notes:**

One more chapter to finish off the summer vacation and then we're off to school! As always, thanks for reading and reviewing!


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Notes:**

Okay, so we've got a lot happening in this chapter. I wanted to wrap up the summer and spice things up a bit. Not so much angst in this one as in ones previous. Dean has some fun (his reward for years of suffering in silence), and then plays the hero. I hope you'll all agree that the Dean we love from the show is emerging as our little man gains confidence as he becomes a big man (or a real man).

As a side note (and for anyone who notices my continuity error), there's a typo back in chapter whatever when I mention Angela's first name for the first time. I had always envisioned her as being Angela Platt. In fact, I had Platt before I had Angela. But for whatever reason when I typed it out I wrote Pratt. So Sam says, "Shelly says that Angela Pratt said that..." and it was a typo. I didn't forget that I'd named her Pratt -- it was always intended to be Platt.

Long story short, I goofed. Anyway, no one's mentioned it, but I thought I would because it bugged me once I saw it. lol.

Last chapter of the summer fun and then we have SCHOOL!

* * *

Chapter 16

It was amazing to Jane how good Dean was at bouncing back. He was like a rubber band – you could stretch and stretch and stretch him, and he would just snap back to his original shape and size without any damage. One moment he was breaking open inside, vulnerable and damaged beyond his own ability to hide it, and the next he was all smiles and charm and laughter and even when you were looking very closely it was almost impossible to see the cracks. He was a damned good actor; that was for sure.

But Jane also knew that when you stretched something too far it tended to snap and tear until it was _broken_. She didn't want that to happen to Dean.

"How're you feeling this morning?" she queried lightly, quietly, so that no one else would hear.

Dean shrugged as he stood at the kitchen counter and poured himself a glass of water.

"Fine," he replied, taking a huge gulp. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Right. Why wouldn't he be, indeed? Last night's nightmare had been a really bad one. The worst she'd ever seen with him yet, in fact. It had taken Jane three whole minutes to wake him up, and for a moment there Dean's body had been so rigid she'd been afraid he was having some kind of seizure. When he did wake up he'd been in a complete panicked daze, so lost and confused and terrified by the dream that he'd broken down sobbing.

When Dean lost himself like that, when the memories took over and the tough guy got pushed into the background while the little boy inside him took over to grieve out in the open, Jane Wesley was the only person Dean would allow to console him. Peter was out of the question, for obvious reasons, being both a man and someone who had accidentally hurt Dean in the recent past. Sam and Suzie were out because they were younger and in need of Dean's protection – he wouldn't be vulnerable in front of either of them if his life depended on it.

So that left Jane to cradle the trembling teen to her chest and take him into her arms and just hold him until the nightmare passed through his system, until his tears ran dry and his heartache receded to that dark place inside him where he hid all of his ghosts. Then he would sniff and crack an embarrassed joke and wipe his tears away on his elbow and pretend he hadn't just allowed himself to take comfort in her. Then he would be all blushes and lame excuses about why he needed to be alone ('I really should get back to work – my homework's not gonna do itself' or 'Man I'm tired… guess I should get back to bed.').

Even so, he always said thanks just before she left.

Dean was working extra hard to be his usual chipper, cocky, contented self this morning, and Jane suspected that Angela and Adam were largely to blame for that. The boy wouldn't want either of them thinking that there was actually something_ wrong_ with him. Heaven forbid his only friend, Angela, ever learned that there was a chink in his armour, that he could be vulnerable and even weak in times of distress.

The whole house had awoken to the bellowing chorus of one of Dean's grossly inappropriate classic rock songs while he lathered himself up in the shower and made them all suffer with his outrageous singing. Jane suspected he sang off key on purpose, could actually picture his self-satisfied smirking grin as he heard his own voice flying sharp or falling flat. Occasionally she caught him chuckling, which confirmed her suspicions.

A quick inspection of his room while Dean was in the shower revealed a mess of open books and papers strewn about the bed. It appeared Dean had opted to stay up and get some work done on an essay his English tutor had assigned him, which Angela had promised to help coach him with, rather than going back to sleep after his rude awakening in the night.

Jane sighed and prayed for patience.

"Dean, do you want to talk about wh—"

"I'm fine," Dean repeated firmly, the muscles in his jaws flexing.

And that was the end of that. He had officially closed off on the subject of last night. She could see it in the blank stare he was shooting her way, as though those green eyes had just turned to stone and were staring through her, daring her to contradict him, promising to remain irresolutely immobile. Promising to deny, deny, deny.

"Fine." There was no point arguing with him when he got like this. He would be even more stubborn with the Platts staying with them, not wanting there to be witnesses to his weakness.

"We'll talk about this later," Jane said instead.

"Won't that be great," Dean's retreating back said blandly.

888

They didn't talk about the nightmare that day, or the day after, or the day after. In fact, they didn't talk about it at all. Dean was back to his happy-go-lucky self and Angela knew better than to press the issue when he so clearly was pretending that nothing had happened. She thought he might even have convinced himself that she'd crawled back into her own room with Suzie by the time his nightmare struck and that she had conveniently missed the whole thing. He didn't act at all uncomfortable or sheepish around her, as though she'd witnessed some intensely private and vulnerable moment in his life. Nosiree, his swagger was back full force, that cocksure grin ever-present on his face from the word 'go,' and Angela convinced herself that whatever he was going through in that dream, he was obviously over it now. She hoped, rather than believed, that that was the case.

Their vacation was otherwise progressing nicely. The warm weather held, making each day of fun in the sun like a little slice of heaven. They went to the water park one day early in their second week at Long Beach and everyone got sunburned, even Jane and Peter, but it was worth it. The waterslides were seriously awesome, especially the one with the inner-tubes, and the crowds weren't too bad even though the line-ups were longish. Angela had been led, or rather dragged, around by the eager pack of boys while Suzie was made to stay with the adults so that Dean could have some time to just be a kid for once. Angela liked that just fine, as it meant they didn't have to go at a seven year-old's pace, or stick to the seven year-old appropriate slides.

Dean and Sam were the only two brave enough to go on the Kamikaze, which was a ridiculously tall slide that shot almost entirely vertically downward and that claimed more than a few bikini tops in its reign of terror. She observed with a smirk that the more adventurous girls who went on the slide, and the occasional speedo-wearing guy, emerged with the mother-of-all wedgies after embarking on the Kamikaze.

Then things had gone south, at least in Angela's opinion, when a couple of teenaged girls had latched onto Dean and insisted on following him around for the rest of the day. Angela couldn't see without her glasses on, but close-up she could tell that they were both pretty, though one was really freckly. For his part, Dean was eating up the attention. He flirted shamelessly – Angela didn't know how he knew how to flirt so well, or so effectively – and the girls, Sandra and Michelle, giggled and batted their lashes and Angela really wanted to throw up, preferably _on_ them, to show how thoroughly unimpressed she was.

But Dean wasn't deterred, and the groupie fan girls weren't deterred, and once again Angela became invisible. She focussed her attention, instead, on her little brother and Sam Wesley/Winchester. It was funny watching them, really. Sam was such a talker and his head was full of all kinds of bizarre facts and anecdotes, and with Adam being as shy as a mime, the two seemed to fall into a rhythm of Sam talking and Adam giggling along. They got along well together with Sam taking the lead in their games and Adam following along dutifully. It was kind of cute, actually.

"Hey Ange," Dean interrupted her silent pondering. "You uh… mind sticking around with these two for a little while?"

Michelle, the non-freckly one, was holding his hand – Angela's Dean's hand – and leaning into his side with a coy, conspiratorial smile on her face.

"Michelle just wanted to show me somethin'," Dean hedged. "I won't be long… Like, fifteen minutes? Half-hour tops."

"Where are you going?" He didn't see her still-beating heart bleeding on the ground from where he'd plucked it from her chest, apparently.

"I need to get something from my car," Michelle supplied. "I forgot my Lipsmackers."

It took a monumental effort for Angela to hold back the scathing retort about how it didn't require an escort to get freakin' lip gloss from her parents' car, wonderfully appropriate comparisons to how many blondes it took to screw in a light bulb dancing through her mind. She wanted to flat out call the stupid tramp a freakin' ho bag, but she couldn't do that without A) looking like a jealous freak and B) making Dean really angry with her.

So instead she tried for feigned indifference and shrugged.

"Whatever." Then inclining her head toward the stretch of grass across the park where the Wesleys had set up their picnic blanket and towels and things, added. "You might wanna tell Mr. and Mrs. Wesley where you're going."

"I'll be back before anyone knows I'm gone," Dean said with a bright and grateful grin.

And with that he and Michelle scurried away, hand in hand, leaving an incredulous and flustered Sandra looking incredibly put out. Angela did indulge in a self-satisfied smirk.

Looks like sometimes even pretty girls got ditched.

"You guys wanna go to the wave pool?" Angela offered to the expectant ten year-old boys in her charge, ignoring Sandra completely.

888

Dean would never get over how awesome tits were. Why anyone would want to have sex with dudes when they could be with a chick was completely beyond him. Chicks were all curvy and soft and smelled fucking perfect, and their bodies, the way they moved, just set him on fire and made his head spin, and the way they tasted… He was all hands and that was fine because Michelle didn't seem to mind. In fact, she made it clear that she was thoroughly enjoying herself.

The backseat of her car – _her car_, because she was sixteen and her Daddy had bought it for her two weeks ago for her sweet sixteen birthday – was cramped but that was just fine by Dean. The tangle of limbs was kind of kinky and definitely awesome, forcing the two teens to get even closer as they devoured each others' mouths. Michelle's pretty black and gold bikini top came off without a fuss, and within moments Dean's hands were cupping two soft, firm mounds. The feel of this girl in his hands made him swell in his shorts and he thought he was going to fucking die. To his amazement, Michelle was shimmying out of her bikini bottoms and _holy fuck_ this chick was naked and waiting for him in the backseat of her car. In the middle of a parking lot. In broad daylight.

It was so hot Dean was dizzy.

"Are you sure?" Dean panted as he eased his way out of his sporty swim shorts, shucking them off his feet with eager enthusiasm. 'Little Dean' was happily standing at attention and awaiting further commands.

"Wouldn't be here if I wasn't," Michelle breathed as she reached out a slender hand to grab his cock.

_Don't. Fucking. Implode_, he ordered himself inwardly as his eyelids fluttered and he stifled a groan. In his wildest dreams he'd never imagined sex could be so fucking amazing – even the build-up part. He'd done a lot of imagining in his three-year stint as a whore, the only way he could get through countless fucks without falling into complete despair, and in his years of imagining he'd never been able to conjure up anything as good as the reality of a real flesh and blood girl with her soft hands on his dick, her soft lips on his lips, her tender flesh melding into his.

Hell, Dean would gladly be a whore if he could bang chicks for money. He hadn't even gotten to the good part yet and already this was the most amazing freaking thing _ever_.

She was urging him toward that warm heat between her legs and _oh God_, he wanted to just plunge right in there. But barrelling ahead and taking what he wanted wasn't his style. Maybe it was conditioning, or maybe it was just that he didn't know _how_ to take, but Dean just couldn't get hot off his own arousal and needs alone. He'd been the one to be used while some dumb guy got off on riding him, and he'd be damned if he was going to do that to any woman. He wanted to drive this girl fucking crazy first, wanted to see her writhing like Jamie Anderson had done, squirming and moaning and panting his name, before he even thought about going ahead for the prize.

So he teased her. He nipped and sucked and used his very agile, very talented fingers to stroke and pleasure her until she was gasping and bucking her hips for more. And that, right fucking there, practically undid him. His whole body was on fire and his dick was aching for release and Michelle was saying, 'I want to feel you inside me,' and then Dean's brain completely switched off and his body took over.

That's when Dean learned there really was a God, and a Heaven, and he was there, right now, between Michelle what's-her-face's legs. It was tight, but not too tight (she'd obviously done this before), and the friction made him groan and tremble, and it felt so warm and slick and fucking perfect…

"Nnng, _God_," Dean moaned when he was halfway inside. He really didn't want to talk – he'd always fucking hated it when the Johns told him he was hot or tight or that he felt good. No way would he ruin the moment with that ridiculous shit.

But now he kinda maybe got why they did it, because every bit of space he gained as he pushed inside made his vision white out with toe-curling pleasure and all kinds of stupid things were just waiting to tumble from his lips if he didn't bite them closed. He wanted to tell her that she was fucking amazing, that she felt perfect around his dick, that he was going to fucking die before he even started to fuck her, but he bit his lip until it bled and kept quiet.

_Let her do the talking_, he thought. And she did.

"Oh God, fuck me!" she gasped as Dean made that final thrust all the way inside. "Please!"

Dean grinned. He'd always been good at doing what he was told.

888

The sun was higher in the sky now, the heat beating down on her shoulders and threatening to burn her to a crisp if she didn't cover up or reapply her sunscreen. It was a good thing they were breaking for a late lunch; Angela really felt it was time for a reprieve from the sun. Though, why she'd volunteered to go fetch Dean with the sour-faced Sandra was beyond her. Angela was certain she had better things to do with her time, even if she couldn't come up with anything right at that very moment.

"Why is it taking so long for them to get her stupid lip gloss?" she sulked as they made their way past the ticket booths at the entrance and headed down the stone pathway to the parking lot.

Sandra rolled her eyes and smacked on her gum loudly.

"How old are you, like, twelve?" the girl asked with disdain.

"Try, _like_, fourteen," Angela retorted. "Almost."

The freckly girl snorted a laugh. "Whatever." She rolled her eyes again and Angela had to wonder if Sandra didn't have some kind of chronic condition that made her eyes take wild orbits around their sockets.

"This so isn't about lip gloss," Sandra said with a pained sigh.

Angela lost a step and Sandra smirked. _Damnit!_ She'd been afraid that Dean had gone off with Michelle to make out with her or something. She had pretty much guessed that that's what they were doing, but she'd still kind of hoped that maybe they'd gotten lost on their way to the parking lot, or that they'd stopped to listen to some music in the car. Or maybe aliens had abducted them. Sandra's smug face pretty much confirmed Angela's worst fears, and then some.

"I don't know what you're so upset about," the girl went on in a casual and indifferent tone, her voice light and airy. "Not like you had a chance in hell of getting with him anyway."

It stung. It really stung. She didn't know this girl, nor did she much care to hear her opinion on anything, but to hear her mention Dean's indifference to her like that, as if it was so obvious – which it obviously was – even to complete strangers, made her chest feel hollow and empty and filled with ache. Angela felt her eyes misting over and had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep her lip from trembling. She would not cry. She would not.

_Nothing you didn't already know_, she told herself. But it was small comfort, really.

"Where's her stupid car already?" Angela asked with a tight throat.

Sandra smacked her gum and smirked again, raising her eyebrows in the direction of a silver sporty-looking convertible directly ahead of them. The windows were tinted and the top was up, so she couldn't see inside, but Angela thought even from this distance the car kind of looked like it was rocking. She took a few tentative steps towards the car to knock on the window and stopped dead in her tracks when she heard the sounds coming from inside.

It sounded like the movies, when the lead guy comes home to find his wife upstairs doing it with the gardener, and he can hear them moaning and crying out and panting in the bedroom as he's ascending the stairs. Angela spun on a heel and looked at Sandra in shocked disbelief.

It couldn't be Dean in there. He was only fourteen. It had to be someone else. Michelle had ditched Dean for some hotter, older guy and Dean had obviously gone off by himself to lick his wounds. That had to be it. They'd lured him off to play this cruel joke on him and he was alone in the water park somewhere feeling as rejected as Angela was.

Because he couldn't be... in there... in that car... doing _that_... with a girl he'd just met. No way.

Angela's cheeks burned red and she spun on a heel and made a beeline for the path at the edge of the parking lot when the noises got louder. She didn't want to hear this. Didn't want to see Dean's face when he was done. Didn't want to be on this stupid vacation anymore. She wished more than anything that she was in her own home, in her own room so she could just lie down and cry herself to sleep. She could put on _Les Mis_ and bawl like a baby without worrying about anyone interrupting her in her misery.

That sounded like a great plan right about now.

She knew they were done when Sandra made her way to the car and gave a quick, loud rap on the window.

"Michelle?" she called hesitantly. "Dean's family wants him back for lunch."

A few more minutes passed before the two teens emerged from the car, hair dishevelled and faces flushed. Angela remained where she was at the edge of the parking lot, not wanting to come any closer. She didn't want to see Michelle's stupid face, didn't want to see the girl gloating over her conquest. From where stood, she could barely see anything at all, though she thought the taller blur, Dean, leaned forward to kiss one of the shorter blurs, Michelle, before he turned to leave.

"I'll call you before we leave town," Dean said as he walked away. So it was definitely Dean, then. The hypothetical older hot guy who'd taken Dean's place in that car just went up in smoke.

Angela lamented the lack of holes to crawl into and die in when Dean caught sight of her waiting in the parking lot and grinned.

888

Today was officially the best day ever. Except for the day he found Sammy. That day was pretty awesome, escape from would-be psychotic killers notwithstanding. But today was definitely the second best day. _Ever_. He'd done it. He'd freaking done it. He'd had sex. In a car. With a seriously hot chick.

_Not bad, Winchester. Not bad at all_.

Angela was waiting for him in the parking lot and he couldn't help the sheepish grin that snuck its way across his face. More than likely Angela had an idea of what he'd just been doing. By the look on her face, she was either in shock, or disgusted, or really, really confused. Maybe she expected to see some lost little boy emerge from that car to go with the image she'd had of him all squirming and trapped in the throws of a bad dream. Well screw that!

_If you're looking for the weepy little girl who was screaming the other day from a nightmare, you can kiss him goodbye, sweetheart. That freak of nature is long gone_.

Dean was done with the cowering in the dark, crying into his pillow, being haunted by the violence of his past bullshit. He was fucking over it. He wasn't going to be a goddamned victim anymore. He wasn't a victim. Period. Bad shit had happened and it was over now.

Adios.

Sayonara.

Au revoir!

Dean was in the saddle now and it felt freakin' awesome. The things he'd done in that car had been so damned empowering. It was right the way their bodies fit so perfectly together like that. It was right the way Michelle's body had responded to his touches like he was milking honey from her. It was right that they'd both been high from screwing – so much better than even the best blow Vinnie had deemed to share with him.

And Dean couldn't help it, as he walked alongside Angela, who hadn't said a single word in the five minutes they'd been walking in silence, he felt the sudden overpowering urge to rear his head back and bellowed out a victorious "WHOOO HOO!" at the sheer exhilaration of the occasion.

Dean wasn't anyone's bitch anymore. He was a man now.

Angela wasn't impressed. Her eyes looked dark and she stared at the ground. Dean thought if she was older there'd be a vein in her forehead that would pulsate until it exploded – like the one in his Dad's forehead that turned purple and twitched when he and Sammy soaked that apartment in Tulsa all those years ago when they had their water fight. That had been awesome.

"You're a pig," Angela said at length. Her gaze remained resolutely ahead, but there was no question that she was talking to him.

"What?" Dean defended.

"Whoo hoo?" she asked. "_Whoo hoo?_ What are you, Homer Simpson?"

Dean wanted to retort with, "What are you, jealous?" but didn't. That would be mean, even for him. He might be clueless, but he wasn't an asshole. Or at least, he tried not to be. And okay, so it was maybe kind of insensitive to bang some chick while on vacation with Angela and her brother, especially since Angela wasn't very good at hiding the fact that she had a serious crush on him. He felt bad about that – he did.

But come on! He'd just totally gotten laid! That was the coolest of all cool things that had ever happened to him, and he was still riding high from the sex rush. He'd had sex! With a girl! And it had been awesome! So he couldn't feel too bad.

Angela's crush would go away. She'd realize that Dean wasn't interested (and if today's adventure wasn't enough to clue her in, nothing would), and then she'd realize all the reasons Dean wasn't worth liking anyway, and they could just go on being friends and everything would be okay. Surely to God she'd learn better than to waste her time on him. A smart girl like her could only be interested in someone like Dean for so long before she got bored. She'd catch on sooner or later. He just hoped she still wanted to be his friend when she finally realized that he wasn't anything other than a pretty face.

Because it turns out he actually kinda liked the googly-eyed freak.

"You gonna stay mad at me all day?" he asked, squinting in the sunlight.

Angela did not reply.

"What, so you're ignoring me now?"

No reply.

"Come on!" he nudged her with his hip.

Her brow twitched but she remained decidedly silent as she trudged onward.

"I'll bug you until you talk to me," he threatened. "And you know I'll do it, too. I'll do the Arnold accent all day until you forgive me."

Still no answer.

"Come on, Ange! You know I'm pretty much braindead when it comes to normal human interaction. But the more time I spend wid 'umans, de more I learn," he drawled in a painful imitation of an Austrian accent, grinning hopefully. His grin faltered when she failed to smile.

Nope. She wasn't budging.

It was a quiet, awkward walk back into the water park.

888

Four days. They'd almost made it the entire duration of the vacation without any mishaps or blunders, without any accidents or tragedies. Four days remained and then it would be time to return to Phoenix. Sam really should have known that things were about to go wrong. But then, he hadn't learned to be cynical like his big brother.

Something had happened between Dean and Angela, Sam wasn't sure what, but the girl wouldn't talk to Dean for a whole day and a half before Dean won her over singing that horrible song over and over and over until she finally cracked and just tackled him. Sam swore if he ever heard his brother say "A-haaaain-geh!" one more time he was going to commit fratricide. Jail would be worth it just to make him shut up.

Once Angela cracked and attacked Dean things went back to normal. She forgave him for whatever it was that made her mad and the two of them were back to their usual bantering and driving each other nuts. Sam liked it when they got along because they could be a lot of fun to hang out with. And he supposed it was pretty cool that his big brother let him hang out with them, considering Sam was four whole years younger, and most kids Dean's age didn't want their younger siblings anywhere near them. Angela was cool like that too. She and Adam were really close (though Sam thought that might have something to do with the fact that their parents were never around).

Angela, it turned out, was also really good at ribbing his big brother, which was something Sam hadn't really seen before. He'd have to take her aside some time and ask for tips so that he could bug Dean as much as Dean bugged him.

For example: turns out Dean got really, really embarrassed when you sang the Beatles' song "Michelle" to him. He'd get really red in the cheeks and try to act like it didn't bug him, but if you kept doing it and then sang louder, he hit the roof. It was awesome. Sam didn't really get why that song should bug Dean, except for the obvious fact that it sucked – because really, why did Paul McCartney ever think it was cool or romantic to write a line in English and then just translate it in French, especially when the French line didn't rhyme with _anything_?

Sam also figured it was because Dean had probably kissed that Michelle girl from the water park, which would also explain why Angela was mad at him in the first place.

The teasing seemed to help ease the two teens back into the regular swing of their friendship, which Sam was glad of. Dean didn't have any friends and it was good that Angela stuck around. He liked Angela. She was smart and funny and Dean seemed pretty relaxed around her. He didn't act as fake around her as he did with strangers, so Sam figured that probably meant Dean liked her.

In retrospect, he wished maybe Angela would rub off a bit more on Dean so that his big brother wouldn't be such a big freakin' idiot.

With four days left of their vacation, four days remaining to see the sights, have fun in the sun, and eat until they were stuffed like sausages, Dean decided it was time to up the ante and do something colossally stupid.

That was also when Sam learned that his big brother was a hero. A big. Idiotic. Stupid. Hero.

Mom and Dad had chosen that day to take the whole crew of kids out to the National Park a couple hours out of Long Beach to do some hiking and take some pictures and 'get in touch with nature' or whatever it was adults did when they felt they'd been cooped up in the city too long. Sam didn't mind. He always liked trees and animals and wild things, and he'd learned about different organisms and plant names in Biology and he was looking forward to seeing some of it up-close and personal. Dean had hummed and hawed and whined about how nature hikes were for geeks, but Mom and Dad still made him go anyway.

Sam wished they'd left him home.

Everyone saw it coming. It was like one of those crappy cop shows where they show real footage of high speed chases, and you see the carjackers careening through traffic, speeding in their getaway car and zipping through an intersection when BAM! – they get ploughed by a semi. You know it's going to happen: you can practically see the shadow of that big looming truck barrelling ahead, and you know the jackass crooks are going to get flattened, but when it happens you still gasp.

Sam and his family, plus the Platts, were in the process of crossing an old bridge that used to be for those old mining carts but had been closed to traffic for years and years. It was a sturdy bridge, for all that it was at least a hundred years old, made of solid steel and painted a faded green colour. The vast expanse of rushing water below churned as if in warning to any who dared to peer too eagerly over the side, threatening to swallow them whole into its foamy, white folded rapids.

"Great place to dump a body, huh, Sammy?" Dean said with a quirked eyebrow as he peered over the side to look below. "The fall alone would totally mangle the body so no one would be able to identify it, and then the current would sweep it away where it would never be seen again."

"Looking for a place to stash me when you finally decide to make your move?" Sam quipped.

"Totally." And then Dean ruffled his hair and swaggered away to catch up with Angela, who had pretty much sprinted across the bridge to take safety in the solid firmness of the earth on the other side. She was afraid of heights.

If they'd all just kept walking – if Mom and Dad weren't busy rekindling the lost fire of their relationship with their hand-holding and carefree strolling – then maybe they would have missed out on the drama altogether. Maybe they wouldn't have heard the sudden terrified shriek of "My baby! My baby!" and Dean wouldn't have lost his goddamned mind.

Sam could waste countless hours of time pondering what could have happened if they'd done any number of things differently that day. What if they hadn't gone hiking that day. What if Mom and Dad had let Dean have his way and left him home? What if they'd taken pity on Angela and avoided going near the bridge? But the reality of the moment was with him now, and it demanded his immediate attention.

With that single shrieked cry of "My baby!" Dean seemed to snap to attention. He paused mid-stride and turned, his eyes so sharp they looked like green steel, as he whipped his head around to find the source of that cry.

A woman leaning over the railing, her face a perfect mask of anguish and despair, her eyes wide with terror and her mouth drawn in horror, was reaching uselessly for her three year-old daughter, whose tiny body was already being swept away by the raging rapids below. She was so small they didn't even hear a splash.

Without a second thought Dean was running, every muscle locked rigid, and Sam thought in that moment that his big brother looked damned scary when he had that determined look on his face. It was a look that said, "Nothing's going to get in my way." Without pause Dean laid a strong hand on the railing of the bridge and vaulted over the side.

The collective scream of "DEAN!" from his parents, Angela, Suzie, and himself, echoed throughout the trees.

888

He didn't think. His body was on auto-pilot. He heard that scream, saw that tiny pink body swept under the churning water, and just like that it all kind of clicked. Then he was in motion, he was running, he was vaulting, he was fucking _falling_, and then he was landing.

The impact was worse than he imagined it would be. It hurt like slamming into a solid wall of concrete at 70 mph, and he was damned lucky he didn't kill himself on impact. He didn't hit the nearby rocks, by some miracle, but he thought he might as well have for the bone-jarring slap of his body hitting the water at such speed. His whole chest felt like it had caved in and he fought to just hold his breath, just keep it in, until his head broke the surface of the water and he was choking for air. His oxygen-starved lungs gasped and clawed for breath, his eyes blurring with pain, but he pushed it all back – his panic, his pain, his disorientation – so that he could get the job done.

The current was sweeping him along so he didn't have to work too hard to move himself forward towards the flashes of pink ahead – the only signs that the little girl was still above water and hadn't sunk to the bottom yet. He did have to kick frantically to keep his own head above water, and it was a vicious struggle against the raging current, which was doing its damndest to drive him below the churning depths. It was a damned good thing he'd done an exercise just like this not three weeks ago while training with the Navy Seals. It allowed Dean to compartmentalize his feelings, to draw on experience, to trust his instincts and strength to persevere. Of course, during training he'd been jumping off of a moving boat and not a really high bridge, but the end result was the same (more or less). He was fighting against a raging stream and it felt like he had two-hundred pounds on his back.

Plucking up courage, Dean surged forward with the current, his strong arms making graceful, powerful arcs through the churning water to propel him further ahead, faster, toward his bobbing target. Every swiping arc of his right arm felt wrong, like things weren't fitting together the way they should, but it didn't hurt. Might be shock, or adrenaline masking the pain. Dean tried not to think about it and focused instead on just reaching the little girl. He could see the pink of her shirt becoming brighter as he got closer, could make out the faint brown strands of hair sticking to white skin, could see, his heart jumping into his throat, the tiny face planted downward into the water.

And then he had her. It felt like it took years to reach her, and by the time he did his arms and legs felt like rubber, but clasping his weak fist around that sopping pink cotton-clad arm gave him renewed energy. He pulled her to his chest, carefully dragging her head out of the water to rest on his shoulder, and tucked her tightly to him with his right arm, which was throbbing kind of numbly at his collar and shoulder, and used his stronger left arm to pull his way steadily towards the shore.

It was slow going and he was fighting against the current, but as long as he could veer to the left he would eventually make it to the bank where he could collapse and die, or rather, perform CPR on the poor kid because _she_ was _not fucking dying_. Every inch he gained was hard won, making his legs burn with the effort, but he continued kicking as he jut his jaw forward and breathed through the pain. Another inch. Another. The muddy bank growing larger as he worked his way towards it.

That's when he noticed the frantic shouts from the shore, saw the blurs of blue and black and gray as figures clambered through the underbrush of the nearby trees in a mad scramble to meet him on the left bank. A huge man who looked like a giant, blonde lumberjack came barrelling through the foliage and with legs like solid tree trucks waded his way into the water to grasp Dean's outstretched hand firmly. This man was so big it looked as though a tsunami couldn't knock him over, and Dean felt the sudden wash of relief overwhelming him at the realization that he was not alone in this anymore: he wasn't going to be swept away to his watery grave with the little girl he couldn't save, a little girl who deserved to live a lot more than he did.

He prayed she was still alive.

More people were on the shore now, strong arms reaching for him and pulling him out of the water to ease him onto the bank. It was strange how his legs suddenly wouldn't work, like his adrenaline had leaked out his ear like a deflating balloon. Relief could do that to you, apparently.

He wasn't aware of the pain, was pretty sure he'd gone into shock or something from the collapsed look of his right shoulder, and instead kept his eyes trained firmly on the tiny still form who at that moment was having life breathed into her little body. Dean watched with a twinge as her little chest rose with each forced breath but failed to rise again on its own. His eyes stung.

_Fucking breathe, damnit!_

More breaths, and then counted pumps to the chest. One. Two. Three.

He lost count, got caught up in the rhythm of breath-breath, pause; breath-breath, pause; compressions. He grimaced and bit his lip, oblivious to the whole world around him as he watched that still life remaining still.

And then she coughed.

He was so relieved he found himself grinning and then promptly passed out.

888

Sam wished that he could fly. The minute his brother went over the side of the railing he had the most overpowering physical instinct to just follow after him, take the plunge with him to somehow snatch him back or break his fall. It was absurd, and fear kept his legs locked together, but instincts were telling him to _go save Dean now!_

He needed to get to his brother.

Mom was suddenly standing right next to the wailing mother, her own arm stretched out in pathetic mockery of the original pose – reaching for that which was already long gone. She shouted Dean's name, again and again, as though saying it would somehow manifest the person before her very eyes. Sam wished it would.

Dean's head suddenly bobbed up and they all watched as he gasped a huge lungful of air as he struggled to remain afloat in the raging waters. The current was fast, taking him along the same path that the wayward toddler had gone only moments ago.

"DEAN!" Mom shouted again. Dad was at her side in a heartbeat, grabbing her shoulders tight as if demanding her to explain what the hell had just happened.

Suzie was crying and Angela and Adam were both just standing there looking white-faced and stunned. Sam imagined he probably didn't look any better.

People were shouting all over the place, and the scene playing out in the water below attracted the attention of other hikers nearby. Sam's heart rushed with something like relief when he saw figures emerging from the trees towards the banks below. People were coming to help. They were going to help save Dean!

And suddenly Sam was running. He backtracked across the bridge and made a beeline down the path they'd just come from until he reached the sign where the path intersected with another path, the sign at the fork indicating the one that led down towards the river below. He ran as if on autopilot, not even aware of his legs moving, just knowing that he had to get to Dean. He just had to get to his brother. He ignored the shouts of both his parents behind him and focused on the steady thudding of his feet on the soft earth. Once in a while he would peer over his shoulder to see that his family were following: he could just make out his father's silhouette with Suzie gripped against his chest while his mother raced alongside him. Within moments Mom was at Sam's side, having passed her husband and caught up with her younger son. The hysterical mother of the three year-old was matching them stride for stride.

No one spoke. They all just ran, terrified that they would get to the river to discover that Dean and the girl had been killed, dashed on the rocks or drowned in the churning froth. Sam thought if they could just get to the river they could save Dean.

He could hear the voices before he saw them. Someone was shouting for an ambulance and Sam thought his heart would explode from fear alone. _Dean's okay. He can't be dead. Please, God, don't let him be dead! You just gave him back to me!_

When the path widened and the trees grew sparse, opening up to bright skies and green grass and muddy banks, Sam could finally make out the assembled figures crouching on the shore. Someone was performing CPR on the little girl while someone else – a huge blonde man in a plaid shirt who reminded Sam of Paul Bunyan – was helping to drag Dean out of the water.

Two things Sam observed in that instant: 1) Dean was conscious; 2) Dean looked beat to hell, his face ghostly pale and his right shoulder looking like it had caved in. Sam ran as fast as his legs could carry him but it wasn't fast enough. Dean's eyes rolled back in his head even as his trademark grin ghosted across his handsome face, and he crumpled into a lifeless heap.

"She's breathing!" one of the assembled adults shouted in relief and the collective sigh of everyone nearby was so clear, so in unison, that Sam had to grin in spite of his gnawing fear.

Dean had done that. He'd saved that little girl. He didn't even have to think about it; he'd just jumped into the raging river and plucked her out like the hand of God. And now that little girl was alive because of him.

"Oh thank God!" the little girl's mother sobbed as she threw herself at her child's feet and pulled her to her chest to rock her back and forth rhythmically. "Oh thank God! Oh sweet Jesus, thank you!"

She murmured her thanks like a manic prayer.

"Dean!" Mom's voice cut through Sam's musing. "Oh God, Dean!"

And just as the other mother had done, Sam watched as his mom fell to her knees at Dean's side. He hadn't noticed before, but she was a basket case. Her face was lined with a steady stream of tears, her hair dishevelled and her eyes wild. He'd never seen his mom look so pale before, either.

"Dean, baby! Come on, wake up!" She stroked a hand over his forehead, almost as if she were afraid to touch him, afraid of hurting him.

"He's okay," Paul Bunyan reassured them. "He was conscious when I pulled him out. Went down like a stone soon as he saw that one was breathin'." And he extended a hand towards the little girl by way of explanation. The three year-old was crying bloody murder, her face purple with her sobs as she hiccupped and choked against her mother's chest, but she was alive.

"He saved her," the man went on. "If he hadn't jumped in when she did…" He left unsaid that the little girl wouldn't be here crying right now if it weren't for Dean.

"An ambulance is on the way," someone else offered.

Mom's lip trembled and she bit back a sob as she bent forward to pull Dean close so she could just hold him.

"Mommy?" Suzie's voice trilled tremulously behind them. "Mommy… is Dean okay?"

"Dean's fine, baby," Dad shushed, and Sam noticed that he too looked really pale and a little red-eyed, like maybe he'd been crying or trying not to cry.

Angela and Adam were there too, now, but neither of them said anything. They both stood silently watching, pale-faced and wide-eyed. Angela's eyes were definitely red, and there were similar tear tracks marking the lengths of her cheeks as well. The whole group had fallen into a kind of heavy hush, the sounds of the other adults talking amongst themselves about what had just happened the only sounds that could be heard over the rushing water. However, when Mom raised Dean to her chest the tender moment was broken. Dean's eyes snapped open and he choked on a gasp.

"Jesus motherfucker!" he groaned and then tried to pull away.

Mom loosened her grip on him, allowing him to pull back enough that he was sitting up on his own without leaning against her, but close enough that she was still holding him by his shoulders.

The movement must have hurt something awful because Dean went from pale to green in about three seconds, his eyes looking kind of vacant and glassy, and then lurched to the right and promptly puked on his own boots.

"Aw… now that's just gross," he moaned and then closed his eyes to breathe deeply through his nose. He swayed a bit where he sat and Mom held him tighter to keep him up. Then Dad was easing Suzie down next to Sam before he took his place behind Dean, forcing the teen to lean back against him so that both Dean and Jane would be relieved of the burden of holding him up.

"It's okay," Dad murmured. "I gotcha. Just lean back and relax."

Sam imagined Dean would probably have protested being made to lean against his foster father's chest like that, but given the circumstances he really didn't have much choice. His shoulder was all… wrong. It was horribly distended out of place and the bone around his collar looked caved-in as it began purpling the flesh around the neckline of Dean's shirt. From the short, quick, panted gasps of breath Dean was taking, Sam thought maybe it was hurting him to breathe, too.

"That was a real brave thing you did," Dad said. "And if you ever do anything like that again you're grounded until you're 90."

"Yes sir," Dean replied weakly, grinning upward mischievously.

Four days left of their vacation and Dean decided to be the hero, earning himself several bruised ribs, a broken collar bone, a severely dislocated shoulder, and a sprained wrist. But a little girl was alive, and a grateful mother would get to kiss her goodnight for those four nights and more, because Dean was his big dumb idiot brother.

Sam loved him so much it hurt, and by the desperate, relieved, worried, flushed, and frantic looks on the faces of his parents, Suzie, and even Angela, it was pretty clear that he wasn't the only one. John Winchester would be proud.

**End Notes:**

In case anyone is worried, NO, Jane Wesley will never be "Mom" in Dean's eyes. I like him to have someone to lean on, to trust, who is a parental figure who's kind of always in his immediate space all the time. And I think we can all agree that Dean is a Mama's boy at heart, even though his Mama's been dead for a long time. I just think of him in "What is and What Should Never Be" and I giggle at how much he's _yearning_ for his mother's love an affection and mere presence. So no, Jane Wesley is not Dean's Mom, will never stand in for his Mom nor ever replace his Mom. Regardless, though, and given the hell I've put him through in this story, he _needs_ her.

And, in case I haven't made it obvious by now, Jane loves Dean. Those big green eyes stole her heart just like they've stolen ours. He does that to women. It's a thing.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Notes:**

Ah, the joys of being a teenager. Remember those days? Remember all the random fights and not talking to so-and-so, the on-again/off-again nature of friendships. Good times.

So we're leaping headlong into teenaged melodrama. Oh the angst! lol. Dean's first day of school is craptastic, and Angela's doesn't fare much better. Dean gets to meet Angela's friends, with interesting results. The Anderson girl(s) make an appearance. And Sam, as always, is sweet and adorable.

I warn you, the first day of school drama took up so much space in my head that it'll span several chapters. Most of the next chapter is already written.

* * *

Chapter 17

The broken collar bone and dislocated shoulder and sprained wrist, all hindering any and all movement of Dean's right arm, turned out to be blessings in disguise. Though it hurt like a bitch, there was definitely a plus side to being an invalid. With the vacation officially over and life returning to normal in Phoenix, Dean had a whole host of nerve-wracking entrance exams to look forward to, and while he knew rationally that he'd worked hard all summer and had gotten himself relatively up to snuff, he wasn't feeling nearly confident enough to pass _anything_, especially not within the department regulated time allotted to all would-be exam-takers. He was pretty sure, at least before Long Beach, that he was going to fail spectacularly. But now with his right arm strapped securely against his chest in the world's most mechanical-looking sling, things were starting to look up.

Dean Winchester never thought of himself as particularly clever, though there were times when he would concede that he had moments of brightness. He could shine when the occasion called for it: that bulb in his brain would light up and a voice from the heavens would cry 'Eureka!' and he would be suddenly blessed with the most brilliant idea. Or at least he thought the ideas were brilliant.

Because he had moments of brightness with that finicky bulb in his brain, Dean had learned to seize upon said moments, to roll with them, to make them work for him. And he wasn't above exploiting or playing up an injury in playing out one of his brilliant ideas. _'I'll need extra time,'_ he'd lamented with exaggerated care to Peter and Jane_. 'I can't write well with my left hand. How am I going to have enough time to write down my answers when my arm's trapped in this thing?'_

Then it was only a matter of watching the dominos fall. Peter had contacted his father, Abraham, who contacted the headmaster of Albright Academy and its Board of Directors, and insisted that Dean be allotted extra time for all of his examinations on account of his injured arm. After using all kinds of strong language about how Dean was a hero who'd injured himself in the act of saving an innocent young girls' life, it was decided that Dean would be allotted an indefinite amount of time. _'Take all the time you need,'_ the examiner had assured him in a soothing voice.

It was awesomeness personified.

Did he bother to tell them that he was pretty much ambidextrous and could write rather well with his left hand? Hell no! They didn't need to know that John Winchester, opportunist and hunter extraordinaire, had ordered his eldest son to start practicing writing with his left hand when he was six years old. _'Never know when your dominant hand might be compromised, Ace. Gotta be ready for every possible scenario.'_ In retrospect Dean figured that John anticipated more than a few hunting-related injuries for both his kids once they were trained up enough to start hunting. It would make sense to have both Dean and Sam more than capable with their non-dominant hands.

In the years following his father's arrest, Dean had kept up the habit of doing things with his left hand. He wasn't sure why – maybe it was his own stubborn way of following through with his father's directives because _Dad was coming back_ – but he did it nonetheless. His father had given him the order, after all, and there was no reason why he couldn't follow it. So he did.

The extra time allotted to him for his exams worked out rather well. Granted, he didn't need it so much for the Math and Science and even for parts of the History and Social Studies exams. Math required more exercise in his mind than with his hand, and he kept his work simple, though he went out of his way to make his numbers bigger and more loopy so that they appeared to have been written with an un-practiced and unused left hand. Science and History were comprised mostly of multiple choice, though there were a few Fill-in-the-blanks sections and essay questions at the end.

English, on the other hand, had long essay questions and two-paragraph answer questions, as well as multiple choice questions and more Fill-in-the-blanks. Dean went as slowly as he could with his English exam, taking the time he knew he would need to get through the readings for the short stories and poems included. He was slow as cold molasses when it came to reading, which was why he'd plotted for extra time on his exams in the first place. He needed time to get through those readings first and without the injury there would have been no way he would have completed in the two hours the rest of his fellow exam-takers were allowed.

Being injured and secretly ambidextrous rocked.

Three days of examinations and the worrying and waiting were finally over. Dean had worked hard all summer, had thrown himself into his studies in the hopes of meeting up to Abraham Wesley's expectations, and also with a view to saving face in front of his super-smart geeky little brother, Sammy. He'd taken the exams. He'd answered every question to the best of his ability. It was out of his hands.

When they got word from Abraham that he'd passed them all, even managing to scrape by in English, the entire Wesley clan – Abraham and Margaret included – had gone out for a fancy dinner where they have ten different forks and three different wine glasses and six different dinner plates _per place setting_. Dean tried not to blush as he hacked at his steak single-handedly like a barbarian in the fancy-assed restaurant, all too keenly aware of his handicap with his right arm secured snugly against his chest in his crisp, expensive, navy blue dress shirt. Without missing a beat, Jane was suddenly leaning over his shoulder and cutting up his meat for him like he was a goddamned five year old.

"One word," Dean hissed to his brother at his left side," and you'll be eating through a straw.

Sam grinned mischievously but remained decidedly silent.

When Jane had finished cutting up Dean's potatoes and mixed vegetables and returned to her seat, the entire table resumed eating as though nothing had happened. Dean's cheeks were still aflame with embarrassment, because seriously, Jane cutting his food was so beyond not cool. But apparently the Wesleys weren't finished humiliating him.

Dean had to choke back the shrill, hysterical laugh that bubbled up the back of his throat when Abraham presented him with a large packaged gift and suddenly images of himself as Julia Roberts in that famous restaurant scene in _Pretty Woman_ with the snapping jewellery case randomly popped into his head. It was apt but so… wrong.

_Not going there_.

So instead Dean accepted the gift graciously, though the blush in his cheeks spread right down to the collar of his shirt, and opened it.

"Your school uniform," Abraham beamed, failing to notice or else deliberately ignoring Dean's confused and then disgusted expression.

Inside the fancy box was a pair of black dress slacks, an Albright Academy crested blazer, a tie, and… _good fucking God_… a light gray sweater-vest.

"You gotta be kiddin' me," Dean muttered, daring to extract the sweater-vest to appraise it. He couldn't help twisting his face into a grimace, only allowed the tips of his fingers to touch the material, as he eyed the finely knitted garment with an expression of sheer revulsion.

"You don't have to wear them both together," Jane assured him. "You can just go with the blazer if you like."

Somehow the whole image of hot chicks in school uniforms looking like naughty catholic girls had blinded him to the fact that _he_ would have to wear said uniforms as well – minus the plaid skirt, of course. Hell, he'd seen Sam coming home in his uniform every school day for a month and a half and still hadn't clued in that that meant he'd be wearing the same prison suit when his time for incarceration came.

_Damn!_

He really _didn't_ like the blazer, actually. He fucking hated it. Only yuppies who went to private schools and wore sweater-vests wore fucking blazers! _Oh God, oh God!_ They were going to turn him into a pansy. They were going to force him into those stuffy clothes and make him part and slick his hair in a business cut and listen to Barry Manilow and drive a freakin' Toyota when he grew up!

"Can't wear the blazer," Dean choked out. "M'arm." He'd be free from the blazer for at least six weeks with the sling on. "Can't I just wear a shirt?"

It was worth a shot.

"All Albright students must wear either the vest or the blazer," Abraham intoned. "Be proud, boy! You will be attending one of the finest schools in the country. Wear that uniform with pride."

Which meant he was stuck with that damned sweater-vest.

888

Angela Platt had always liked the first day of school. It was a special day: a day of new beginnings and reunions with friends whom she'd lost touch with over the summer. But it was also like coming home. In the place of a mother's balmy kiss goodnight, Angela had the dusty tomes of Albright Academy's rather extensive library. Instead of bear hugs from a doting dad, she had familiar hallowed halls and proud smiles of teachers who she admired and looked up to. School was the place she felt she most belonged, felt most comfortable. A school uniform was to her what a cushy pair of slippers and flannel PJs were to the average girl. Like A warm cup of hot cocoa.

School was comfort.

So the fact that she walked up the familiar steps to the front door of Albright Academy with a heavy heart and lead in her shoes was not a little bit puzzling to her friends. They expected her to be jubilant and confident and self-assured as she always was when making her way into her home-away-from-home. But her eyes were cast downward and she shrugged away questions about how her summer had gone. She looked listless and even a little dejected. And her friends wondered, aloud, what had gotten into her.

What they didn't know was that today was the day that she would lose Dean Winchester forever. It was a mathematical certainty. Cute, gorgeous, charismatic boy arriving at private school to meet cooler and more popular friends equals Angela being less than invisible. It equals Angela ceasing to exist.

She knew it in her heart and it made her bones ache with sadness. During the summer Dean had had no other choice but to hang out with her. She was the only kid in the neighbourhood who was allowed to socialize with him, given that he'd been pretty much blacklisted after the whole binge drinking incident at the McKinleys' pool, and she was helping him prepare for his English entrance exam. Of course he'd been willing to hang out with her _then_.

But things were sure to change now that he had access to newer, cooler, more attractive people to be friends with. He'd see them and drop her like a bad habit. She just knew it.

"Angie, what has gotten into you?" Caroline asked. "You look like your puppy just died or something."

"I don't have a puppy," Angela mumbled with a dejected shrug.

"Not the point." Caroline rolled her eyes and sighed.

"Yeah, what's wrong with our Angie girl?" Neil pressed.

She couldn't explain it to them. They wouldn't understand. They'd never met Dean, and even if they had they probably wouldn't like him. He was the kind of guy they would dislike as a matter of principle: he was cocky and rude and _gorgeous_. And he knew he was gorgeous and openly acknowledged it without any of the false modesty any other self-respecting hottie would employ. You weren't supposed to admit you were good looking if you were good looking.

It was a well-known, albeit unspoken rule.

And Angela pining over some conceited, good looking guy who she'd been tutoring half the summer and had developed a retarded crush on would rank pretty high up on their meter of Stupidest Things Angela Could Waste Her Time Doing. So she didn't bother to explain. She kept her sorrow to herself and allowed herself to walk forlornly forward, her teen angst visible for all to see without shame.

Every time they called her 'Angie' her heart twinged.

She reached with a long, slender hand toward the handle of one of the large, double doors at the school's entrance, poised to pull when something caught her attention.

"Ange!" a familiar voice called through the crowd of kids milling about in front of the entrance stairs behind her. "Ange!"

She paused at the door and turned slowly and tried very hard not to smile.

"Jesus woman!" Dean said loudly and with a brilliant grin brightening his handsome face. "I've been calling your name for like five freakin' minutes!"

He took the steps two at a time, his long, powerful legs practically gliding on air as little Sammy Wesley scrambled along to keep up with him as they pushed their way through the crowd. Angela was amazed at the grace of Dean's movements, considering his recent injury, and had to will herself not to stare at him. She had to stop doing that stupid crap, now more than ever.

"What're you doing, daydreaming again?" Dean pressed with a chuckle. "Good thing there aren't any Frisbees around."

It was almost disconcerting seeing him in the Albright uniform, looking all prim and polished in those black pants and with that gray sweater-vest. And he was wearing a tie, though he'd clearly gotten claustrophobic and had apparently attacked the collar of his shirt, unbuttoning the top two buttons and pulling the tie loose to hang limply at his breastbone. His right arm was buried somewhere beneath the vest, folded against his chest and secured there with that bizarre contraption-of-a-sling, which was also hidden beneath the vest. She could also make out the black cord of the amulet he'd worn pretty much every day since the day she met him.

"Earth to Angela," he intoned.

"God, will you quit it?" Angela snapped at length. She shook her head to reorient herself and gave Dean a hard look. "I was just thinking, okay? Unlike _some_ people, I do like to use my brain every now and then."

"Yeah, whatever." Already he was bored with the conversation, his eyes roaming in the general direction of passing skirts and long legs that passed by through the door.

"You've got the attention span of a fly. You do know that, right?"

Sam grinned. "Hi, Angela!"

"Hey, Sam." She allowed herself a genuine smile, grateful, as always, for the younger brother's presence. "How did your last week of summer go?"

"Pretty good," Sam replied with an adorable dimpled smile. "I actually managed to put Dean in a headlock the other day!" And he was positively beaming. "Dean having only one working arm freakin' rocks!"

"Yuck it up, Chuckles," Dean warned. "When I'm outta this thing your ass is toast."

"You going to introduce us to your friends?" Sam queried, ignoring the threat.

"Right." Angela coughed. Dean had gotten her all turned around, making her forget her manners. By the expectant looks on her friends' faces, it was clear that introductions were long overdue.

"Everyone, this is Sam Wesley and his brother Dean," she said, indicating Sam and then Dean in succession.

"Winchester," Dean corrected, extending his left hand toward the nearest available friend, Neil, and giving Angela a pointed look. "Dean and Sam _Winchester_."

"Hi Dean," Neil replied as he awkwardly took Dean's left hand in his right and shook it. "I'm Neil Chambers."

"Hey, Neil."

"Hi," Sam added, extending his own little hand by way of introduction.

"Caroline," Angela's remaining friend said as she took Dean's proffered hand and shook it in turn.

Dean didn't fail to miss the coolness of Caroline's greeting, nor the lack of lustre in her returned smile. His handsome grin faltered and he retracted the hand, shuffling awkwardly on his feet. Then his walls descended, his eyes taking on that guarded, distant cast Angela had come to recognize. If he were a cat or a dog he'd be bristling.

"Anyway, I'd better go now," Sam said brightly before skipping off.

"Sam!" Dean hissed after his little brother as he followed him partway inside. "Hold up a sec!"

It was then that Angela realized they were still standing at the door, blocking entry so that people had to step around them to get inside. She was really off her game today, doing that lingering in doorways thing that she positively hates. Without further ado she made her way inside, keeping an eye on Dean and Sam as they whisper-argued a few feet away.

"Where'd you meet him?" Caroline asked coldly, unimpressed or trying very hard to look unimpressed.

"Pool party during our neighbourhood's 4th of July bash," Angela shrugged. "He seemed pretty nice so I invited him to play Frisbee with me a few weeks later."

"And he went with you?" Caroline's shocked expression was more than a little insulting.

"Yes. He did," Angela bit out. "Try not to sound so shocked."

"Seriously?" Neil asked and Angela was disappointed to note that his eyebrows had disappeared into his hairline, they were raised so high in surprise.

"I'm sorry Angie," Caroline put in bluntly, "but guys like that only ever hang out with people like us when they want something. Did you offer to tutor him or something?"

Her face was burning now with indignation and the beginnings of anger. It was mortifying that the nature of her relationship with Dean had been so easy to guess, but even more embarrassing was the possibility that it was true. Could Caroline be right – had Dean only ever hung out with her because he was using her as a tutor? Maybe he'd never been her friend at all…

As if in confirmation, Angela watched in mute horror as Dean made one final, angry, negative head-shaking, arm-waving gesticulation in her direction before Sam shoved him from behind, forcing his big brother forward so that he could rejoin the conversation. Dean smiled at her awkwardly and shot his baby brother a mutinous look, only to find he was glaring after Sam's retreating back as the kid disappeared into the crowd to find his own friends.

"Hey," he said with a forced grin. If it weren't for the constant hum of background noise as students shuffled to and fro through the halls, the silence would have been deafening. Crickets would chirp and tumbleweeds would blow past on a ghost wind.

"So…" Dean said, taking a deep breath and letting it out through puffed cheeks. "You guys are friends with Ange?"

"Since first grade," Neil replied proudly and was about to say more when Angela cut him off.

"Right, well…" she looked at her watch with feigned impatience as righteous anger and indignation lit a fire that coursed through her veins. "We should probably get going. I guess I'll see you around, Dean."

She thought Dean looked startled, like he'd been slapped or something, and maybe even a little hurt, but was too busy pushing past him to stride imperiously down the hall to know for sure. _Ego's probably bruised_, she thought angrily as she marched ahead, Caroline and Neil hot on her heels. She forced herself to think about the library, about her favourite scene from Jesus Christ Superstar, about rainbows and puppies and unicorns – anything to take her mind off the soul-crushing humiliation of having been played for a complete fool.

Dean Winchester, the boy with the pretty green eyes, had used her. She'd been a fool to think that someone like her would ever have meant anything to someone like him. He'd probably been laughing himself to sleep every night at how stupid and star-struck she'd been with him. Probably went ahead and took a stiff drink just to mentally prepare himself for hours of boredom hanging out with her so that she'd stick around to tutor him. And Sam, sweet, adorable Sam, was trying to make Dean pay attention to her because he thought they were friends.

_God she was so stupid!_

888

_Wow. This Caroline chick seriously hates me_, Dean thought as he was released from her cold, vampire grip. He'd been on the receiving end of some seriously disdainful looks in his short life, and this one was ranking pretty high up there on the 'You're the crap I just scraped off my boot' meter. He felt his grin slipping and knew he probably looked disappointed, so he quickly searched out that calm centre and fished out his trusty blank, emotionless look. He would not let this stupid judgmental chick with the goth hair and bloodlessly cold hands see that she'd unnerved him.

"Anyway, I'd better go now," Sam said brightly and suddenly he was skipping off.

Dean felt a momentary flash of panic at his little brother's intended departure. No way did he want to face Angela's friends alone.

"Sam!" Dean hissed, following him inside the doorway and down the hall before catching him by the wrist to halt his hasty exit. "Hold up a sec!"

"I need to get to home room, Dean!" Sam whined.

"Wait!" Dean whispered. "You can't leave me with them! They hate me!"

"They don't hate you," Sam replied, rolling his eyes.

"Dude, did you see the look Vampira just gave me?"

"Well Angela doesn't hate you," the kid tried to reassure him.

"Can't I go with you?" Dean tried and hated himself for how retardedly little and scared he sounded. "You know… you could show me around?"

Oh God, was he really begging to hang out with his kid brother? Was he that pathetic?

"Stop being a freakin' wussy girl and go hang out with your friend!" Sam whisper yelled.

"She didn't even want to introduce me!" Dean hissed, waving his uninjured hand angrily in Angela's direction. "Dude, she so doesn't want me there and I'm not a freakin' charity case!"

"Don't be an idiot!" Sam was pushing at his left side now, urging him to turn around to go back to Angela and her friends. "Girls don't like guys who feel sorry for themselves."

"Sam!"

Too late. He'd been pushed forward enough now that Angela and her band of merry meanies could both see and hear him. Fan-freaking-tastic. He turned to give Sam a death glare but the kid was already making a beeline through the crowd. Nothing for it, then...

"Hey," he said, forcing a grin. It was so awkwardly silent within this weird little circle that he could feel himself cringing inwardly. _Please, somebody say something. I feel like the world's biggest loser ever_.

No takers.

"So…" Dean said, taking a deep breath and letting it out through puffed cheeks. "You guys are friends with Ange?"

"Since first grade," the guy called Neil replied proudly. He was taller than Dean but a little on the pudgy side, and with the slightest hint of a lisp. Probably gay.

"Right, well…" Angela butted in when it appeared Neil was about to say more. She made a show of looking at her watch impatiently, her googly eyes looking over-bright behind those ridiculous glasses, and then sighed. "We should probably get going. Maybe I'll see you around, Dean."

And then she fucking walked away, her vampire and token gay friend following in her wake as she cut a swath through the milling teens in the hall with the force of her mere gangly presence. And Dean was left standing alone, like an idiot.

What the hell had just happened? What was Angela's problem? Why had she totally just dismissed him like that?

He shifted his knapsack higher onto his left shoulder and made a hasty retreat down the hall, tried not to notice when curious eyes followed his movements, tried to look self-assured and confident when inside he felt like the biggest fucking fraud Albright Academy had ever seen.

The morning had played out exactly how he feared it would. Granted, he hadn't arrived to find himself naked and being laughed at as long, distended fingers pointed at him and crowds of teens sneered and whooped about the gutter-trash whore who was playing at being one of them. That hadn't happened… _yet_. But the part where he arrived to find that he had no friends, that he wasn't wanted by his brother or Angela, had. On a rational level he knew that Sam had only left him behind so that he'd be forced to rejoin Angela and her friends. He got that. He did. But Angela so clearly didn't want him around. She looked tense and embarrassed – her cheeks were freakin' flaming – and it was pretty clear she didn't even want to be in the room with him.

_Probably relieved she doesn't have to tutor your sorry ass anymore and irritated you didn't slink away and leave her alone, moron!_ He chided himself.

'_Maybe I'll see you around,'_ she'd said.

Dean tried not to think about it as he wandered the halls, barely taking in the sight of rich, glossy wood panelling and sleek hardwood floors. His eyes were too busy scanning doorways, reading numbers in search of room 203, the site of his homeroom class, which he belatedly realized would be upstairs. He found the nearest stairwell and made his way up the stairs two at a time, forcing thoughts of Angela far away (or trying to).

He had totally misread her, he decided. Whatever stupid crush she'd had on him, it was obvious now that seeing her friends again had been enough to snuff it out. It was no small wonder, really. He was barely fucking literate – how could someone as smart as her even acknowledge being friends with him in public without losing face? Of course she hadn't wanted to introduce him to her friends. Of course she'd gotten the heck out of Dodge when it became clear he wasn't going to go away.

He was so stupid sometimes he was embarrassed for himself.

_Well screw her!_ He thought angrily. He didn't need googly-eyed freaks mooning over him, making him listen to Sgt Fucking Pepper and boring him with useless facts about long dead English kings. If she wanted him gone, then he was perfectly fine with that. Friends were pointless anyway – they asked too many questions and wanted to know all your business and watched stupid musicals and asked to sleep in your bed and then caught you having embarrassing fucking nightmares.

He found room 203. _Probably better off without her_, he thought bitterly as he made his way inside.

888

Dean hadn't forgotten how much it sucked being the new guy at school. It was always the same: long stares, penetrating looks, being weighed and measured by each gaze as you passed by rows of desks to find your seat. Everybody else would have their groups of friends long established and you would be the new shiny object on display. He remembered people measuring him up, taking a good long look at his ratty clothes and worn shoes, and deciding instantly that he was trash. It had been pretty much routine.

Now, though, the looks were far more curious, the readings harder to decipher. He was something of a mystery, with his rattiness all hidden on the inside, his worthlessness hidden beneath the very fine uniform and protective veneer of Peter Wesley's money. Now his fellow classmates couldn't take one look at him and know where he'd come from.

Somehow that made everything worse. There was something almost comforting about being judged on stupid things like clothes and money. It let you know from the word 'go' where you stood with people. It let you know what to expect. At this school, with everyone dressed the same in those carbon-copied uniforms, there weren't any dead giveaways to mark one person as from the other side of the tracks and another a resident of Snob Hill. Then again, everyone at Albright, Dean supposed, was from Snob Hill. Everyone was living fat off of Daddy's money, waiting until they turned 21 and could rest easy on their engorged trust funds.

In uniform people had to look harder to find the inner shabbiness. They had to really scrutinize you, get out their binoculars and dig deep beneath the surface to unearth those dirty little secrets. And _Jesus!_ Dean had a lot of them. The fact that he knew how to suck cock with such expert skill that he could make a man cum in under two minutes was not something his classmates were likely to appreciate. He shuddered at the very thought of anyone knowing the things he'd done for money, for shelter, for survival. He'd been on his fucking knees for so long.

It was awkward going from class to class, making introductions with people he didn't really care to meet. Everyone seemed pretty hesitant, being careful to keep their distance from him. Small-talk was pretty much standard but never really amounted to anything or went anywhere. Some classmates were bold enough to ask where he'd come from, what school he'd been at before, while others just stuck to the obvious and oft-repeated question: 'What happened to your arm?'

His answer, whenever he gave it, was always different. In one reply he'd injured himself wrestling with an escaped Gorilla at the zoo; in another he'd been nearly run over by a garbage truck; in yet another, his personal favourite, he'd been mugged by a band of old ladies intent upon stealing his sweater-vest. At no point did he mention anything remotely resembling the truth, that he'd injured himself jumping off a bridge when he'd rescued a little girl from drowning. Somehow that seemed the least plausible, and the most embarrassing, of any scenario his wild imagination could conjure up.

The girls in his classes seemed intrigued by him, and he caught more than one of them eying him speculatively, appreciatively. He knew the look, could tell when he was being watched with that almost predatory, claiming gaze that goes from one prospector's face to another: 'Back off! I saw him first!' He tried not to be smug about it, but it was pretty awesome. The guys, on the other hand... The looks they were shooting his way were a lot less appreciative and a great deal more hostile. Dean supposed he couldn't blame them. Most of the guys in his grade were skinny as all hell and all long arms and legs in the gangly, I've-just-grown-into-my-body-and-it-doesn't-fit kind of way. A few of them were taller than him, though not many, and there were some who were bulkier, brawnier than him, too. But Dean doubted a single one of them had his muscle definition, coordination, dexterity, or stamina. These were boys, some of them flaming with acne, voices still cracking. Compared with the majority of scrawny boys in his classes, Dean was a freakin' Adonis. Plus, he was one of the few who'd apparently broken the mould and opted to forego the Eddie Furlong T2 hair, which made the whole lot of them look like a bunch of girls, in Dean's opinion.

There would be a confrontation, Dean knew, probably sooner rather than later, given Dean's injury. It would be too sweet an opportunity to miss: jealous teen boys picking a fight with a guy they felt threatened by when said guy had only one working arm. He wished he could take bets with someone on how long it would take for someone to make a move to challenge him or make him lose face in front of a group of fawning girls. He'd have laid money on it happening that first day, and if he'd had any takers he'd have won that bet.

Sure enough, someone made a move during the break between first and second period. Dean had made his way to his locker to relieve himself of the previous class's large and heavy textbook, only to find himself practically swarmed by a group of his classmates. A skinny, pimply-faced guy who might have been considered cute by his fellow students if Dean weren't around to compare him to, was leading the assault.

"Hey Winchester," the kid said, Owen, Dean thought his name was.

Dean closed his locker and turned, raising his eyebrows in question but being careful to look as bored and unimpressed by the assembled group as possible.

"So what's your story, huh?" Owen asked.

Dean snorted a laugh.

"Oh, I don't know," Dean said thoughtfully. "Tell you what, though. You look like you're pretty much full of shit. Why don't you tell me?"

A few of the nearby teens snickered, while others bristled at his reply.

"Fine," Owen said, nostrils flaring. "Let's start with what I know for a fact – that your Dad's in jail 'cos he's a crazy psycho who killed like six people."

Owen waited for Dean to confirm or deny it, but Dean said nothing. He instead tried not to grind his teeth at the sight of the kid's sneering face.

"The rest is just a guess, really," Owen went on. "You were reunited with your brother Sam after living like some kind of hobo for years. A street kid, maybe. Or maybe you did a stint in Juvie. Anne Myers said Mrs. Wesley had to buy you a whole new wardrobe when you first got here because you didn't have any clothes."

_Fucking gossiping freaks_, Dean cursed inwardly. Did everybody in these stupid social circles know everybody else's business? And who the fuck was Anne Myers?

Dean pretended to consider it, jutting out his bottom lip in thought, all the while keeping his expression as blank as he could make it, going for casually indifferent even though he wanted to fucking deck the stupid punk for being the first to air his dirty laundry in public. Dean felt pretty certain he wouldn't be the last.

"Not bad," he said at length. "You got most of it spot on, actually. Except the part about Juvie." He winked at a pretty girl standing near his locker. "I never got caught, see."

Owen and his cronies seemed genuinely surprised that Dean had admitted the truth without any theatrics or histrionics. And his casual air seemed to be throwing them off their mob-mentality swarming game.

"My turn," Dean said with a grin, allowing his eyes to rake over the angry, thwarted teen before him as he made a visible show of sizing him up, taking a good reading before he leaned casually against his locker and stuffed his free hand into his pocket.

"You," Dean said confidently, "are a bit of an underachiever. Never had to work for anything so now you don't know how – and boy does it show when Mom and Dad come in for those parent-teacher interviews and get an earful of how _un_remarkable their son is. You're scared to stand on your own two feet, which is why you've always got your posse flanking you. Easier to pick on people who can't fight back when there's no chance they might actually beat you."

Owen opened his mouth to protest but Dean cut him off.

"And what _I_ know for a fact?" Dean silenced him with a cocky grin. "This sweet thing right here," he looked to the pretty girl near his locker again, "is your girlfriend, and you really don't like the way she's been lookin' at me all morning."

He knew he'd hit it right on the mark when the pretty girl blushed and Owen's cheeks flamed red with anger.

"And I'm going to go out on a limb and say you haven't even made it to first base." He waggled his eyebrows and his grin widened. Really, the guy was so transparent, he was easier to read than those R.L. Stein books Sam had tried foisting on him to help him with his reading. "Am I right?"

Learning when he'd taken things too far with that big mouth of his, apparently, was something Dean was simply incapable of doing. He should have seen it coming, really, and if he'd had two working arms he'd have been able to block it with his usual fluid grace when he did see it, but as it was he was too slow. The shove caught him full in the chest and he couldn't stifle the gasp at the feeling of shifting, grinding bone in his collar. His whole body went suddenly cold and then flaming hot, like he'd been hit simultaneously with waves of ice and then fire. He stumbled against the locker as nausea rose up within him in concert with the heat. It took monumental effort not to puke.

"Watch your back, Winchester!" Owen spat.

Dean grit his teeth through the pain and glared. He could feel beads of sweat forming on his brow and thought he might even pass out at the sheer feeling of wrongness in his shoulder, but he fought through it, willed himself to remain upright in spite of the agony blossoming through his wounded right shoulder. Without a word or warning he swept out his right foot, fast like a viper-strike and effectively cutting Owen's legs clean out from under him. The smirking teen fell back on his ass with a startled yelp and the surrounding crowd leapt back in surprise.

"Watch your own, you spineless dick!" Dean retorted. And without further ado he jammed the lock on his locker closed and did his best impression of his own cocksure swagger as he made his way to the nearest bathroom so he could promptly vomit.

888

He didn't come to her table at lunch, she noticed; and she wasn't sure if she was relieved or upset by it. Sure, she'd essentially told him to get lost earlier that morning, but a small part of her had hoped that she'd been wrong about him and that he'd at least want to know why she was pushing him away. Then maybe she'd learn that he did want to be her friend, that he hadn't just been humouring her for the last two months, and that maybe her friendship actually meant something to him. It was hard to believe, but a part of her still hoped.

"Mr. Denne says that auditions for band are on Thursday," Neil said brightly.

"Yeah," Angela replied absently, her eyes scanning the crowd of people in the cafeteria in search of a particular handsome face.

"If we make it to the Finals in the music festival this year, I hope we'll get to do some Williams," Neil went on. "I know he says it's pandering to the masses and too 'main stream'" and here he used air quotes, "but whatever. Williams is brass heavy, man."

"You just like doing Williams because you want to be the lead trumpet for the Jurassic Park theme," Caroline accused, tossing a baby carrot at him.

"So sue me," he grinned. "Did I tell you my Mom bought me the sheet music for it? I can't believe she found it so soon after the movie came out."

"You going to audition this year?" Caroline asked Angela, who was far too busy looking for Dean to pay attention to their conversation.

"Mm-hmm," she mumbled. "Sounds great, Neil."

And then she saw him. That familiar short-cropped sandy blonde hair was easy to spot as he made his way through the crowd near the cafeteria doors, considering he was tall for his age and stood several inches over most of the guys in their grade and the one above them. His expression was blank, if a little serious, his brow furrowed in concentration and his lips pursed into that pouty-face that she found so adorable. It was his 'I'm thinking' face.

"Earth to Angela!" Neil laughed, tossing the wayward baby carrot at her.

"What?" she snapped. Damnit she wished they'd stop pestering her when she was busy brooding over Dean.

"Oh," Caroline said darkly. "I see." Her eyes followed Dean as he made his way through the cafeteria to take a seat at a table by himself.

"He looks pale," Angela commented to no one in particular. "I bet he hasn't taken any of his pain meds today for his shoulder."

Caroline rolled her eyes and sighed dramatically, her irritation clear.

"Is this what it's going to be like from now on? You moping over that stupid guy?"

"Dean isn't stupid!" Angela defended hotly. Though she might tease him about being a Neanderthal, Angela knew Dean was actually quite clever. She hated it when he made disparaging remarks about his intelligence or referred to himself as "the handsome brother." It was meant as a joke but she could tell he felt there was truth behind it. 'Sammy's the smart one' was essentially the translation.

"Wow," Neil said in awe. "You've got it bad for him."

Angela drew a murderous glare slowly in Neil's direction.

"You wanna die?" she threatened.

"I don't get it," Caroline put forward bluntly. She was always blunt. It was her way. "I mean, I get that he's cute, but..."

"But what?" Angela demanded, her brow furrowing. "You met him for all of thirty seconds. You weren't around him enough to not like him."

"I don't like that he's got you wrapped around his finger," her friend stated simply. "I bet he just flashes that smile and you just fall over backwards for him."

Angela wanted to be indignant, but the fact was she did fall to mush when he smiled at her. Hell, she'd agreed to go on a two-week vacation with his family just so she could tutor him. Granted, it had been prefaced as a 'Come join us since your parents are going to be away' kind of thing, and proposed by Mrs. Wesley, not Dean; but Angela had no illusions that she'd been brought along for any reason other than as Dean's tutor. For his part, Dean had seemed perfectly content to just hang out with her, though. In fact, he'd done just about all of his studying during those two weeks late at night in his room. He hadn't sought out her help much at all.

Maybe she'd gotten it all wrong. She remembered being curled up on the couch with him watching that damnably scary movie with the homicidal undead child, and how he'd been so relaxed with her even though she kept punching him in the arm. And all those days at the beach, swimming together and having fun together. He'd smiled his genuine smile, had laughed his genuine laugh, his eyes had brightened the way they only ever did for Sammy and Suzie, when they'd shared a belly-aching laugh or when they'd had their Water War and tackled each other until they both got sunburned and had to go back inside the house.

He'd been her friend on that vacation. She was sure of it. She'd just gotten so turned around because Caroline had had to go and point out the obvious with the whole 'Why would someone like him want to hang around with _you?_' thing. And now there Dean was, sitting by himself and looking kind of lonely as he chomped away on his sandwich, and not at all surrounded by his new popular friends as she'd imagined (and secretly feared) he would be.

She felt like the world's biggest asshole all of a sudden. More likely than not, Dean was sitting there right now lamenting the fact that the elementary kids had a different lunch hour, as well as having classes in a completely different wing of the campus. He'd be missing Sam right now. For as much as he made fun of the kid, nine times out of ten Dean would rather be with his little brother than in anyone else's company.

"I'm an idiot," she muttered to herself.

"No you're not," Caroline assured her. Her voice was soft and sympathetic, her eyes intense with concern. "I'm sure he's very charming when he wants to be. It's not your fault he played you."

But that wasn't it at all. Caroline just didn't get it. She didn't know Dean, and she didn't know anything about what they'd done this summer. She was just projecting her own teenaged insecurities onto yet another situation, allowing her bitterness to paint a dark, distorted version of a picture she hadn't even bothered to take a close look at. Caroline had never been popular, and unfortunately had been on the receiving end of some pretty brutal teasing and bullying for most of grades seven and eight. She saw what she wanted to see when she met someone like Dean, but she didn't know what to look for.

Angela did.

"I need to talk to him," Angela said as she rose from her seat and prepared to go over to Dean to apologize. She needed to apologize, to explain that she'd had one of Dean's braindead moments, as he liked to call them. She had to fix this so he wouldn't hate her, so that he'd be her friend again.

But she was prevented from doing so when Emma Anderson made her way to his table and took a seat next to him.

888

Dean wished Sammy were here. So far life at private school sucked out loud and he missed his little brother. A lot. The people in this school were snooty and pampered and shallow, and from the snippets of conversation he'd managed to pick up here and there in the halls, totally engrossed in pointless crap. He heard more talk of dieting and weight loss from the girls in his classes than he would on a whole year of Oprah shows. They talked about make-up and pedicures and going for freakin' bikini waxes (which he so did not want to think about). And the guys talked about the most inane crap, like video games and how much the latest gadget Daddy bought them was worth. They sized up girls and talked about sex as if they had a fucking clue what they were talking about, and Dean had to laugh because it was so obvious that the skinny freaks were all a pack of hopeless virgins. But everything was a fucking pissing contest, a consumer's version of 'Mine's bigger than yours.' These kids did nothing all day but flatter themselves about how rich they were, how 'original' their clothes were, what influential or famous people their parents knew, and where they spent their summer holidays.

He felt himself missing Angela's constant chatter about the inherent sexism of _Peter Pan_ and the real life inspiration behind "Eleanor Rigby." He missed Sammy's random, 'Hey Dean, did you know that kangaroos are marsupials?' and 'If you could go back in time and change one thing, what would it be?' questions. 'I'd go back and stop Hitler,' the kid had announced soberly, a determined, righteous glint in his eyes. 'I'd assassinate Mark David Chapman before he ever made it to the Dakota,' Angela had said. _Of course she would_, Dean had smirked. They'd looked at him with matching looks of awed pity and sadness when he admitted that he'd save his Mom from the fire.

Okay, you know you're a sorry sack of shit when you're sitting by yourself in a room full of kids your age thinking about your dead mother. Snap the fuck out of it, Winchester!

What he really wanted to do was go home. His shoulder was killing him and he hadn't thought to bring his pain meds with him. Or rather, he'd deliberately opted to leave them at home because they made him groggy and he didn't want to look any more like a slack-jawed yokel than he already was. Now he was in serious pain and feeling kind of nauseous and his mood was seriously plummeting. But somehow he didn't think the Wesleys would take the news of him ditching class on the first day of school very well.

So he choked down his sandwich, ignoring the flips his stomach was doing, and forced himself to focus on other things. In a few weeks he'd be spending a weekend with Bobby for some hunter training, which was definitely something to look forward to. He'd already marked it on his calendar and was privately keeping a countdown in his head. He wondered what kinds of things Bobby would teach him. Probably some incantations and charm work. There would definitely be a crash course in Latin. Maybe even melting down silver to make bullets.

He couldn't freakin' wait! Then he'd be doing something meaningful. He'd be putting his energy towards fighting the good fight, saving innocent lives, and making his Dad proud of him. If he could be strong like his Dad, become a badass hunter who took out evil sonsobitches for a living, maybe then he wouldn't feel so scared and helpless half the freakin' time.

"Hey Dean," a voice called behind him, startling him from his thoughts. He turned in time to see Emma Anderson walking purposefully towards him and looking damned cute in her plaid skirt and knee-high socks.

"Hey," he smiled. See? He so didn't need Angela. Hot, non-googly eyed girl taking a seat right next to him at his table.

"How you doin', Emma?" he asked. "And how's Jamie?"

_Mmmm... Jamie..._ He'd definitely have to look her up on campus. Just the memory of her in her bikini, the feel of her soft breasts cupped in his hands, the sounds she made when he worked his fingers between her legs, was enough to make him twitch in his pants. What was it with him getting lucky with older chicks in swimwear?

_Fuck! Focus, Dean!_

"We're fine," she said, casting her brown eyes downward and keeping them there. "I think..." She chewed her lip and hesitated. When her eyes rose to meet his, they looked dark with determination and... anger?

"I think you should stay away from my sister," she said stonily.

He hadn't expected her to say that and it clearly showed on his face.

"What?"

"Stay away from my sister," Emma said, gaining courage with conviction. "You could probably have any girl in this school you want. And my sister... she's better than that. She's special."

Wow. He'd known the Anderson girls were close, but damn. That Emma Anderson was a spitfire when she was feeling defensive of her sister. Dean supposed he could relate. He'd move heaven and Earth to protect Sam. Still... she was being a tad dramatic.

"Listen, Emma," Dean cajoled. "I'm not sure what your sister told you, but—"

"She told me enough," Emma replied coldly. "She likes you Dean, but I think we both know that you'd just be using her. And I love my sister. I don't want to see her hurt."

"Hey." His voice was soft, assuring. "I'm not gonna hurt anyone."

"She was grounded pretty much for the whole summer because of you," Emma said. "You're trouble and you know it."

"Nobody put a gun to her head," Dean defended. "I didn't _make_ her do anything she didn't want to do."

"I know," she conceded. "She told me. But... Can't you just back off and find someone else? She's nothing to you, and she's everything to our family. Just... find someone else, okay?"

And damnit, she was practically begging. Did she really think he was that much of an asshole that people needed protection from him? She made him sound like some kind of predator.

"Fine," he sighed. "Whatever. I'll stay away from her."

"Thank you." She looked so relieved Dean almost laughed. He watched as she got awkwardly to her feet and gave him a brief, cursory glance, somewhat apologetic even, before leaving him alone with his thoughts.

_Well that was awesome_, he thought bitterly. _So far today I've been ditched by the googly-eyed geek I thought was my friend, shoved on my injured shoulder, I've puked in a public toilet while a couple of jocks fuckin' laughed at me, I've sat like a loser by myself eating a lunch I've got no appetite to eat, my shoulder's fuckin' killin' me, and now I've been warned off of a girl who was totally into me and probably would have had sex with me if I'd played my cards right_.

_Now all I need is a piano to land on my head and we can write this day off as the craptastickest day _ever.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Notes:**

Warning ladies -- we dip into some more angsty, racy, dark stuff in this chapter. Dean's worst day ever gets a lot, lot worse. I know that it might seem excessive but it's something I had visualized pretty much from the beginning, and it actually ties in with the Dennis plot (believe it or not). It is about to hit the fan in a big way, and hopefully take some turns you aren't expecting.

But there be angst and pain and tears ahead, as well as sexual content involving a minor (in the form of a memory) that's pretty explicit. I tried to tone it down and not make it gratuitous, but at the same time wanted to show the more gritty, degrading side of Dean's time as a prostitute when he wasn't just being brutalized by Vinnie. There's a reason for it all, though it might not seem that way right now. I hope that you'll trust me to take the plot forward, though, as I've been trying to do all along with this beast.

Upwards and onwards, right? Oh yes -- another warning. Enjoy this chapter while you can (_if_ you can), as I will likely be very late in coming up with the next one. I'm visiting family out of province and won't have much time to get any writing done at all (sleeping on the couch, not having a minute to myself, that kind of thing). So I apologize for the wait for the next one, and for the cliffie. (Which is why you're getting this a day early)

* * *

Chapter 18

It was moments like this when Angela Platt wondered how her life ended up taking such a drastic turn. She was a creature of routine, as predictable as predictable gets, and, if she was honest with herself, a terribly boring person for being on the cusp of fourteen. Day in and day out went by pretty much the same, with a few variations, but always to the same steady cadence that those who knew her had come to recognize as distinctly hers. She did not get into trouble. She did not break the rules. She did not act out or rebel. Her path through life was that of the staunchly straight and narrow. Bull's Eye ahead – that was her way.

So how she ended up home on a Monday, a school day, in the middle of the afternoon catering to a grossly intoxicated friend who was clearly in the middle of some kind of meltdown or psychotic break or something else dire and terrible like that, was completely and utterly beyond her. It made her head spin with whiplash and made her guts twist like they were being stabbed with thousands of tiny knives. This wasn't _her_. This wasn't what she did. And it was all Dean Winchester's fault.

She should have said no when he went on a raid through her parents' liquor cabinet in search of tequila, but he'd been so determined that she'd merely stood back and watched as Hurricane Dean swept through her house in a tempest of angst and jitters. How could she say no? He'd been _crying_, for Christ's sake! She'd seen him break open when the levee of all his pent-up emotion broke and he'd been reduced to a quivering, sobbing mass.

So when he said, "I need a drink," she'd been half tempted to say, "How do you want it? On the rocks?" Because really, what do else do you say to the boy you're in love with when he's just broken down crying like a baby right in front of you and you don't know how to fix it?

_One shot of tequila, coming right up!_ But one turned into two, and two turned into three, and three turned into I-lost-count, and I-lost-count made an interesting cocktail with the pain meds that apparently were lingering in his system longer than they'd both thought. And now he was shit-faced, sprawled out on her kitchen floor on his back, staring up at her with a goofy smile and rambling about demons and dislocated shoulders.

And it was only four-thirty in the afternoon.

"'venshally," he slurred as he blinked owlishly up at her and licked his lips to moisten them. "E-_hic_-venshally I'm juss gonna be like one'a those circuss freaks tha' kin pop therr arms'out 'n pop 'em back in again."

"Your shoulder's going to heal fine, Dean," she placated, but he shook his head no.

"Tha'ss three times I diss-low-cated m'shoulder in the lass four months." Shaking his head back and forth, back and forth, blinking so slowly. "Twice wi'ma leff arm an' now m'right. 'M lika muppet, man. All jelly at the join-_hic_-ts."

Her heart twinged in pain as dark thoughts came unbidden to her imagination. Dark thoughts about where he'd been before he came to Phoenix and what kinds of terrible things had been done to him. She'd suspected for a while that maybe he'd been abused, by the way he flinched when adults were around and came too close to him, and by the way he was so guarded and secretive about his past. The twice-injured shoulder kind of confirmed it, though obviously she didn't know the details.

Whether it was true or not, though, she didn't want to find out about it like this. He was vulnerable and clearly incapacitated and he'd regret revealing his secrets later when he was sober. She respected his privacy enough to know that she had to put a stop to this conversation before his inebriated brain let slip things he'd otherwise have kept hidden.

"Hey Dean," she called conversationally. "Wanna watch a movie?"

His answering grin was lopsided and adorable.

888

Four hours earlier...

The crowd in the cafeteria was starting to pick up now that the Seniors' lunch hour had begun, and Dean hoped he might see Derek Schuster around, but once again he was disappointed. The older teen was obviously off doing something much cooler than hanging out in the school cafeteria – probably outside having a smoke, in fact. With that thought in mind, Dean chucked the last of his lunch in the garbage bin and decided to head outside for a few minutes, either to socialize with his (hopefully) friend or to try to grab a few quiet moments of privacy to collect his thoughts and get his shit together. Moping and brooding was so not his thing.

He caught Angela watching him from across the tables, her head raised as she craned her neck to watch him pass. _What the hell?_ he wondered. That girl needed to make up her freakin' mind! She looked like she was about to stand, those googly eyes following him across the room, and he knew that she was going to come talk to him.

_Screw that!_ He thought bitterly. He'd had enough of her fucking yo-yo hormones for one day, thank you. And between Angela brushing him off this morning and then Emma warning him off her sister not five minutes ago, he was pretty much full up on the getting-bitched-out-by-emotional chicks quota. Angela could go fuck herself.

He ducked past a burly duo in matching letterman jackets and nipped out into the corridor, casting one last quick glance behind him to see if Angela was following him. She wasn't.

He sighed in relief and turned to face front, coming smack dab to a crashing halt with a portly man in a suit and nearly landing on top of him as the poor man stumbled back and landed with a wheezed 'oof!' on his ass.

"You should watch where you're going," the man blustered imperiously from his rather undignified position on his rump.

"Crap!" Dean hissed. "Are you okay?"

He reached out with his left hand to help the man to his feet and then froze when the flustered man raised a red face to meet his. The man looked vaguely... familiar. Dean hesitated, hand still extended, as his mind did a quick search through his memory banks to try to pull up an image of this man. Shortish, balding, red-faced and fat... He looked familiar, which made the hairs on the back of Dean's neck stand up on end.

_Can't be_, he told himself. _You're not there. You're not there. This guy just reminds you of someone_.

The man's scowl faded as his eyes scrunched up in confusion, squinting at Dean as if to see him better, to draw from his memory as Dean had just done to see how he knew this boy.

_No fucking way!_ his mind screamed. _I don't know this guy. I don't fucking know this guy._

But then he saw it, clear as day. Recognition. Irritation on the man's face melted into startled surprise, which melted into something that looked an awful lot like embarrassment and longing.

"Dean?" the man whispered, wiping a sweaty palm against his pant leg.

'_Did you like it when that fat slob fucked you, huh?'_ Vinnie's cruel voice taunted in his memory.

Walter. The name jumped at him in conjunction with memories of sweaty palms and meaty fingers and the slap-slap of skin against skin and suddenly Dean was trying very hard not to lose his lunch. This was the sweaty pig from _that day_. The precursor to that horrible moment on Vinnie's kitchen floor. _'__You think I wanna touch you after you let that pig crawl inside you, huh?'_ The last words Vinnie had spat at him before he'd violated him, torn him open on the inside.

Walter. _That_ Walter.

Panic the likes of which he'd never known spiked through his chest, encasing his lungs in steel that squeezed with icy cold fingers. Dean snatched his hand back and trembled, staring in wide-eyed horror at the John standing before him, looking very smart and commanding in his suit, looking like he fucking _belonged_ in this school. Looking like he had some authority here, even. A teacher, maybe. Or one of the Board of Directors.

Quite frankly Dean didn't care. He just needed to get the fuck away, _now_. Everything was crashing down and the blood pounding through his head, rushing past his ears in flooding, bubbling torrents, was making him feel light-headed and dizzy.

"Dean?" the man pressed in a whispered voice, lowered to be conspiratorial. "Is that you?"

Dean didn't waste another moment. He ran.

888

Walter Cunningham had never been much of a praying man. He supposed it was because deep down he was bitter, angry at God, even, for being wired differently than most men. He couldn't help that his sexual preference tended towards pubescent boys. It wasn't his fault. It was hardwired into his DNA. He could no more prevent being attracted to boys than a homosexual could help being attracted to the same sex. In his case, though, it was considered a perversion, a crime even, by all walks of life. His sexual preference was deviant, anomalous, and wrong. So how could he offer up prayers to a God who would make him this way, dooming him to be unhappy all his life, or to live as one of the lowest vermin of human society?

But this... this fortuitous, serendipitous run-in with a boy he'd fantasized about for five months... It had to be a sign that what he was doing wasn't wrong. It had to be a sign that it was in fact _right_. God's own stamp of approval.

How else could it be that the prostitute, Dean, whom he'd feasted upon months ago and daydreamed about since, had gone from missing and presumed dead in New York City to matriculating at Albright Academy in Phoenix Arizona? Walter didn't believe in coincidences, and he certainly didn't believe in luck. He'd never been lucky in anything, and he doubted that his fortunes had suddenly improved.

No. This was fate. This was destiny. This was some divine power telling him that he deserved to be happy – that it wasn't wrong to want the things that he wanted, to crave the things that he craved. Fate had sent that boy to him to give him a chance at true happiness. Not that he had any illusions about true love or happily ever after, and especially not with this boy. But there was no such thing as coincidences. And this boy... This boy was _everything_ he craved. And now it seemed the whole world had opened up to tell him that it was okay. He could have this. It was okay for him to enjoy this.

He ached in anticipation and gratitude at the universe smiling upon him, thinking back to that moment when he'd not only glimpsed but _tasted_ heaven.

April, 1993

The boy was nervous, though he did a good job of masking it. Still, Walter could see it in the set of his shoulders, the placement of his feet, the tight knuckles of his hands. Walter wondered if this was new for him, if this life was new to him. Maybe the kid had fallen in a bad way with drugs or something. That seemed most likely, considering the company he kept. Or maybe he was a runaway and this was his only way of supporting himself. Maybe both.

Part of him felt guilty, so guilty, for being a part of this cycle, for taking what he knew rationally he ought not to take. People would call him sick if they knew – he'd lose his job, most certainly. But the heart wants what the heart wants. And for Walter there was nothing more pure, more true, than the soft skin of a beautiful, young boy on the cusp of manhood. There was something about the angles, the yet-to-be-filled-out frame, the promise of what's to come, the potential, that stirred a fire in his belly that inevitably shot straight to his groin. There was innocence and inexperience and vulnerability, even in the boys who thought themselves hardened and disillusioned.

And this boy... God, this boy was everything he loved about boys to the power of ten. He was so beautiful, so pale and soft and vulnerable in spite of his confident swagger, his cocksure grin. He walked and talked like a man, but his eyes were so prettily sad and scared and needy, just like a little boy. And those long lashes were so enticing, the light dusting of freckles on his nose and cheekbones begging to be licked. Best of all, though, he was a whore. It wasn't wrong if the boy was selling it. Taking advantage of an innocent – a true innocent – Walter could concede, was at least questionable. But with a _bonafide_, professional cocksucker asking for payment for services rendered… Well, this was perfectly acceptable.

"So how do you wanna do this?" the young prostitute asked bluntly.

Walter coughed and took a few tentative steps towards the boy, wanting to just make contact with that perfect skin, to touch it before he tasted it. He needed to touch it so badly.

"Can I just—" he reached out a hand tentatively and then paused. "Can I touch you?"

The boy shrugged.

"Whatever floats your boat. It's your dime."

Walter decided to start by gently stroking a soft cheek with his finger. So tender... so supple and inviting.

"You're beautiful," Walter whispered. "You're so beautiful."

He traced the length of the boy's jaw with his finger, trailing past the sweet cleft in his chin, branching up with a thumb to run along the plush, tender bottom lip.

"No kissing," the boy, Dean, said, flinching away momentarily. "Not on the mouth."

That was a disappointment. He'd wanted to feel those lips against his own; wanted to plunder that sweet mouth with his tongue. Maybe if he offered more money...

"It's non-negotiable," the boy insisted, as if reading his mind. "Anything else you want, you got it. But no kissing."

"Fine," Walter conceded, irritated and feeling a little put off now. Where did the kid get off dictating how this was going to go? It was just a kiss for Christ's sake. And he'd come a long way for this. He was paying a pretty penny, too much, in fact, for the boy to be making demands.

"Take off your clothes," he ordered in retaliation. He was in control here, not the kid. The boy was _his_ until he was satisfied. He'd already been paid for.

A small shudder ran through the skinny frame, so small it was almost imperceptible, but Dean complied without hesitation. He pulled his tatty t-shirt over his head, revealing flawless white skin on broad shoulders, in spite of his youth – skin that was marred here and there by ugly purple and yellow bruises. Walter's chest tightened in remorse, wishing he could kiss the pain of each of those bruises away.

"Did he do that to you?" Walter whispered as he ran his fingers over the protruding collar bone, aching with the feeling of all that creamy flesh at his disposal.

The boy flinched at the question and turned defiant green eyes in Walter's direction.

"You wanna do this or not?" he asked testily. Clearly he didn't appreciate the questions about his personal life.

"Yes, please," Walter said.

"Fine." A coy smile played across those sinful lips. "Why don't we forget all about the cokehead out there and get down to business?"

_He wants this!_ Walter's mind screamed with joy as his cock pulsated in his pants with sudden, burgeoning desire. _Look at how eager he is!_

"Let me," Walter interrupted as Dean's hands fumbled with his belt. He could feel the boy trembling and was glad to relieve him of the duty of undressing. He slid the belt free of its clasp and forced pudgy fingers through the button, easing the zipper down with care. The faded jeans were worn and a little tight, obviously too small after a recent growth spurt, but after a few tugs with insistent hands they came tumbling down to the boy's knees.

"Turn around," Walter ordered breathlessly.

The young prostitute stepped out of his jeans and turned without a word, his bare back exposed and waiting to be devoured. Walter allowed his sweaty hands to explore over all that exposed flesh, tasting by touch alone the pale, white skin as goosebumps erupted along the smooth, soft surface. He stepped closer, moving into the boy's personal space so that they were practically touching back-to-chest. Walter's own protuberant belly ran plush with that warm skin and another jolt shot through to his cock.

It was every fantasy come true, made flesh, as he took in the scent of the freshly cleaned boy whose sandy blonde hair was still damp from a recent shower. He could smell shampoo and soap on his skin, could smell the fresh purity of youth unspoiled. Walter pretended, in that moment, that young Dean was a fresh-faced student, confused and in need of guidance, yearning to be touched, to be made a man. He abandoned all sense of reality, where before him was a boy being paid to service him, and instead pretended that want and need had brought Dean to him. Desire had driven the two of them together.

Trembling hands glided along protruding shoulder blades, down the length of the boy's spine counting the bumps as they slid over each vertebrae to the small of his back and pausing at the waistband of his boxer shorts. Then, taking a deep breath, he slid his hands beneath the thin cotton fabric to cup the firm, round cheeks of the boy's buttocks in his hands. The sensation was so delectable, so overwhelming, that Walter began to pant for breath.

"Take them off," he whispered in the boy's ear as he ran his hands up and down the smoothness of the boy's ass. "Take them off."

The boy swallowed in a kind of anticipatory gulp, exhaling a deep breath, and then complied, bending slightly at the waist to remove his boxer shorts. When he'd righted himself and stood once again at his full height, the beautiful boy Dean was fully naked and truly glorious to behold.

Walter didn't waste another moment, allowing his hands to roam greedily over the boy's naked body, feeling his smooth chest, tweaking perfect, pink, perky nipples, trailing down that flat stomach to curl through dark, blonde pubic hair and at last settling between the boy's legs. Walter sucked on that succulent neck and tugged until the boy let out a gentle groan.

"You want me to go to the bed?" the boy asked.

And _God_, he did. Walter did. He wanted to sink into that inviting body and possess it utterly and completely. But not yet. He didn't want to rush, didn't want it over too quickly. This time was precious, and all too soon it would end. He wanted it to last. He wanted to take all that he could get.

"Not yet," Walter finally ground out as his hands continued to roam over that soft landscape of skin. "Why don't you get a taste for me first?" He grinned at the very thought of that sweet mouth, those bee stung lips taking him in and sucking for all they were worth.

"Turn around and get on your knees," he ordered.

His cock twitched again when the boy did as he was told without hesitation. Beautiful mossy green eyes looked up beneath heavy, sooty-dark lashes as the boy kneeled before him. He looked like such a perfect angel with those pretty eyes and those childish freckles, that soft blonde hair still shower-clean, soft pink lips parted slightly. The boy wordlessly reached up with steady hands and undid the belt at Walter's waist, unhooking the button at his pants and easing the zipper down deftly and without fuss. The pants slid noiselessly down to pool at Walter's knees and he felt himself shiver in anticipation. His boxer shorts tented against the aching erection beneath.

The boy was good. _Oh sweet fucking Jesus Christ_, he was so fucking good. Walter threw his head back and hissed as the adept young prostitute drove him to a frenzy with his practiced hands, tongue, lips, and _nnnngggod!_, his fucking throat! He fisted a meaty, sweaty hand into the soft hair and held onto the bobbing head, moaning in ecstasy at the magic that kid could do with his mouth. It was so fucking hot Walter's eyes swam with stars and he saw all the heavens at once. When the boy started humming against him and he felt his balls tightening with impending orgasm he knew he had to stop.

"Stop!" he cried, grabbing the boy's shoulders to halt him before he lost it and came in his mouth.

Dean withdrew quickly, pulling those gorgeous fucking lips away with an audible 'pop!' and smirking a self-satisfied grin.

"Almost had you," he taunted cockily, and wouldn't he just love that? Get the John off without having to put out.

"Yeah, well, my turn," Walter retorted as he pointed toward the bed. "On your hands and knees. Now."

The kid's eyes flashed with something, something deep and dark and almost sorrowful that Walter didn't want to contemplate just now, before the mocking grin was back in full force. He ran a thumb suggestively across his bottom lip as if to wipe away the trail of pre-cum from the amazing blow-job he'd just given, and got to his feet in one fluid motion.

"Condoms are in the top drawer of the bedside table," he said peremptorily as he sauntered naked to the bed. "No glove, no love."

Walter watched in awe as the kid crawled onto the bed on his hands and knees, positioning himself on all fours like a steed ready to be mounted. He had such a fine body, if a little skinny, with lean, lithe muscles and such flawless, smooth skin. The angles of his face were both sharp and soft, striking but delicate, matching the angles of his body. The jagged lines of his shoulder blades were sharp compared with the smooth, round, firmness of his delectable ass. _My God_, he had a nice ass.

He would probably be tall one day, Walter thought as he removed his shirt and tie. Already the kid's shoulders were beginning to broaden with manhood. His hands and feet, too, were strong and masculine-looking compared with his soft, boyish features – pretty features, even.

They both turned their heads towards the door at the sound of bottles clanking from the man, Vincent, in the hallway beyond. Time to get the show on the road, then.

Walter shuffled out of his pants and boxer shorts, taking a deep breath to just take it all in before he got down to business. He looked at the beautiful boy waiting on the bed for him, watched as the kid mentally prepared himself for what was to come, and found himself thinking how truly blessed he was to be here. His own body was a bloated mockery of the handsome young man he'd once been, before age and lifestyle started packing on the pounds. He'd always been a little on the pudgy side, though never fat until he reached his late 20s. Somehow his life habits managed to catch up with him, and every beer he drank, every steak he ate, every dessert he indulged in, went straight to the growing folds of fat on his body. Now in his early 50s he had to concede that he was more than pudgy: he was fat. Compared with all the unspoiled beauty laid out before him, Walter was downright ashamed of his body.

It made him thankful he had money to spend on pretty boys who couldn't afford to say no.

Shrugging off unwelcome feelings of ugliness and inadequacy, he made his way to the bed and fished a condom packet out of the top drawer of the bedside table as instructed. Now that he was here and that pliant body was ready and waiting to be taken, he was eager to get down to it. He pried the packet open and rolled the latex condom onto his swollen cock and slathered it with some lube he found in the drawer.

It was worth every penny. Walter savoured every inch of the flesh he'd purchased, riding out his pleasure on a creature of such beauty he could have cried with joy. It was better than anything he'd ever imagined, better than any smut he'd read in a magazine or watched in an illicit film. This was real and hot and tight and overwhelmingly good. With each move of his hips Walter came closer to heaven.

He'd never done this kind of thing before – had never dared seek out the services of a prostitute for fear of being caught and arrested – but now that he was here and riding waves of pleasure with a supple youth spread beneath him on his hands and knees, he knew he'd do almost anything, pay any price, to get it again. It was so perfect, the sensations washing over him in toe-curling waves, the sweat-slick skin and panted breaths, the tiny grunts of pain and pleasure.

This kid, Dean, was taking him to the stars. Cocky and taunting, full of bravado and wanton desire as he panted and moaned like he couldn't get enough. And so Walter fucked him. He moved in and out of that tight space feeling like his entire body was floating on a cloud to sensual heaven. Everything was perfect: the boy, his vulnerability and defiance, the tight heat, the slick slip and slide of friction, the sounds that fucking kid made whenever Walter's cock hit home, and the words that spilled from the little slut's mouth – it was all so perfect that within minutes Walter was losing control, spilling his seed into the condom with an anguished, fulfilled cry of triumph.

He died inside that boy and wanted to die again and again and again. As he collapsed in a bone-melted heap onto the trembling frame beneath him, he indulged in fantasies of being a millionaire, of being able to afford to keep this boy as his own private sex toy so that he could enjoy him every day. He found himself envying the unworthy prick in the room beyond who'd rented out this precious specimen of flesh for the sake of supporting his own drug habit. It was such a waste, really, that such an unworthy piece of trash as the big brute in the next room should have access to this on a daily basis.

For his part, the boy was just lying there panting breathlessly, his body all slick with sweat from the exertion of being well and truly fucked. Walter allowed himself a small swelling of pride at his own performance, though he noticed belatedly that the child had not come. It was a bit puzzling, really – the boy had certainly sounded like he'd been enjoying himself. Perhaps Walter had finished too soon, hadn't given the boy a chance to reach his own climax. A shame, really.

He reached forward and slid a sweat-slicked hand along the boy's hip to snake between his legs so that he could jerk him off, but the boy quickly shrugged the hand away and sat up.

"We're done here," he said curtly, peeling his body away from Walter's now flaccid penis. The sudden cold, the loss of that warm, enveloping heat, left Walter feeling empty and alone.

"Shower's down the hall if you wanna get cleaned up before you go."

And just like that, it was over. The spell was broken. Walter dressed in silence, noting that the sinful boy with the angel's face—Dean—avoided looking at him altogether now that the deed was done. So he put his clothes back on and hoped that the smell of fresh, clean youth would cling to his skin for the duration of the trip back to Phoenix.

Present Day

Dean. Beautiful, perfect, sinful Dean, was within these walls, roaming the halls, attending classes here, within reach. _Dean Winchester_. It was funny, really, how genuinely pleased he'd been to literally run into the steamy young prostitute. Every goddamned time he'd been forced to humour Abraham Wesley, listening to the surly old badger prattle on about his foster-grandson, _Dean_, and how the boy would earn his place at Albright, and that the Wesleys had made substantial donations to the school throughout the years, and how Walter owed him that small favour... Every single time he talked to Abraham Wesley, or the Board of Directors, or anyone on the staff, for that matter, about the incoming student that they were all bending the rules for in admitting – this lucky kid, _Dean Winchester_, with the friends in high places – Walter had immediately thought of the pretty boy with the most beautiful cocksucking mouth he'd ever seen. All this planning and preparing and holding meetings to discuss whether or not the boy should in fact be admitted, had brought Walter's mind back to that mind-blowing sex, had made him think of that pliant, inviting body, of the sweet, sweat-slicked skin, of the enveloping heat. The name _Dean_ played through his head for five months, mocking him with memories of sinful green eyes that he would never see again, tormenting him with freckles that he would never taste again.

_Dean, Dean, Dean_.

The name had mocked him for an entire summer, tormenting with bittersweet memories and the regret of knowing, believing, that his _Dean_ – the wanton sex toy – was lost to him forever. This new _Dean_ would only serve to be a cruel reminder of what Walter Cunningham could never have again.

Until he'd barrelled into the very same face he'd been jerking off to in his mind when he rounded the corner of the hallway on his way to the cafeteria. Looking into those wide, startled, stunned green eyes and seeing recognition there, had been the signal from Destiny herself. There was no such thing as coincidence. Dean – _his Dean_ – was here. Now. It was meant to be.

Walter could already taste him, could feel the ghostly memories of flesh and heat and ecstasy. He didn't know what twist of fate had brought the boy here, but he knew that he wouldn't be wasting the opportunity to reacquaint himself with that perfect, pliant body. He needed to.

It had been so long... So long since he'd been able to touch, to taste, to feel alive inside the sweet warmth of another human being. He'd been so lonely, so hungry, for that connection. He'd even tried arranging for another appointment with the boy, planning on heading back to New York to indulge in another moment of sweet bliss, but had been informed by the brute Vincent that Dean was missing – disappeared after being left with a trick and presumed dead. Walter well remembered the bitter disappointment at the news, the tragic sense of loss and even helplessness at learning of that poor, beautiful boy's fate. Murdered, he'd thought.

But not so, it turned out. Dean hadn't been killed: he hadn't been butchered by some modern-day Jack the Ripper and disposed of where no one would care to look or ever find him. Oh no. _He'd escaped_. He'd stolen himself away and made himself a whole new life in true rags-to-riches form. Now he was playing at being Albright material, all shined up like a new penny in his school uniform, looking the part of an accomplished young gentleman. Only Walter knew the truth.

And he was going to milk it for all he was worth, because Destiny was smiling on him.

888

She was going to have to grovel. She knew that now. Dean wasn't making eye contact with her, and if the scowl he shot her way as he made a hasty retreat from the cafeteria was any indication, he was pretty pissed at her for the slight earlier that morning. Fair enough, she thought. She deserved his anger. She'd brushed him off, made him feel stupid in front of her friends, and all because her own insecurities had reared their ugly little faces, her own pride wounded by the mere thought of losing his friendship.

But it was okay because they were in the same English class for the first period after lunch hour. She could fix this. She'd apologize and let him lean on her throughout the class, offering help where he needed it in case he got flustered or confused by Mrs. McKinley's lesson. She just needed to let him know, somehow, that she was sorry.

It was easier said than done. He took a seat far away from her before class began, keeping his eyes averted, his head down, as he worried his bottom lip. Instantly Angela's instincts kicked in, taking in the defeated posture, the over-strung, anxious thrumming of his body, the jack-rabbit gaze flitting about the room, the shocking pallor of his skin. Something was _wrong_.

She bit her own lip in thought and considered making a quick jaunt to use the payphone to give Jane Wesley a call. Dean was in pain, that much was clear. She was certain now that he hadn't brought his pain meds and his shoulder had to be aching. He squirmed in his seat, shifting his weight and wincing once or twice but finding no change in position that helped. Angela felt certain that Jane Wesley would be able to talk some sense into him, make him take his pills to end his suffering, but she also knew that he was far too proud to pick up the phone and ask for help.

Maybe she should call...

"Good afternoon, class," Mrs. McKinley's voice broke through her thoughts. "I see we've got some new faces this year."

Angela allowed herself a small sigh of relief. Mrs. McKinley was a great teacher. Smart, funny, understanding, and deeply intuitive. She'd know what to do. She seemed to have a sixth sense about these things, could sniff out 'troubled teen angst' a mile away. She'd see that one of her newest students was clearly in distress and she'd do something about it. Maybe she'd send him to the school nurse.

"For those of you who don't know me, I'm Mrs. McKinley." There were a few quiet murmurs of acquiescence. "I believe Daria Holmes comes from Seattle?" the teacher queried.

A mousy-looking girl with a straight bob cut nodded shyly and slunk deep into her seat in an attempt, Angela could only guess, to become invisible.

"And Dean Winchester," Mrs. McKinley went on, "is joining us from New York?"

Dean's head snapped up, deer-in-the-headlights eyes wide and panicked, and like a flash it was gone. He swallowed and breathed deep, schooling his face into a mask of calm. Not as smooth or as flawless as he normally did it. He must really be in pain, Angela thought.

"That's right," Dean drawled.

"And how is the Big Apple?"

Dean shrugged with his left shoulder. "Crowded."

'_Ask him about his shoulder!'_ Angela's mind screamed. _'Find out why he looks so spooked!'_

Mrs. McKinley frowned.

"Are you okay?" she asked quietly as she approached his desk. "You look kind of pale, Dean. Is your shoulder bothering you?"

"No, I'm fine," Dean lied.

"We have a school nurse," the teacher continued, "if you wanted to—"

"I'm fine," Dean ground out, interrupting her. "Really."

Stupid, stubborn ass!

"Well, if you change your mind..." the teacher trailed off. Then she turned and faced the whole class, clasped her hands together and seemed to gather her energy as she smiled genially before the assembled students.

"I've got an exciting year planned for us," she said proudly. "We've got some of our old friend William Shakespeare, some Brontë sister action, some poetry thrown into the mix, and short stories that'll knock your socks off."

Angela noticed Dean's silent scoff, noticed that he shook his head in tired disbelief and slunk further into his seat with a grimace marring his handsome face.

"I set a fast pace and I expect you all to keep up," Mrs. McKinley warned, and that much Angela knew to be true. It was a hard class, though rewarding in the end for all she got out of it. She hoped Dean could keep up.

They started with a short story. Mrs. McKinley handed out photocopies of a piece called "The Lamp at Noon" and asked them all to read it so they could discuss it as a group. After twenty-five minutes of silent reading she called the class's attention to begin the discussion. Dean, Angela noticed, was nowhere near finished as he wiped a sweaty palm self-consciously against his thigh and gulped.

As it turned out, it didn't matter that Dean hadn't made it through the reading because the class was disrupted by the crackling voice of the office secretary over the intercom.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. McKinely," the voice droned nasally. "Can you please send Dean Winchester to Headmaster Cunningham's office? His presence is required immediately."

All eyes turned to look at Dean, who, if possible, had just turned several shades paler.

"Not in trouble already, I hope?" Mrs. McKinley joked as she tilted her head to the side, indicating for Dean to go. Angela wondered idly if their teacher realized that Dean was the kid who'd polished off an entire bottle of Johnny Walker Blue with her son during the 4th of July bash. She suspected she did know and had to give the woman credit for remaining so impartial about the whole thing. Lesser teachers would hold a grudge against a new kid for something like that.

Dean didn't reply but got wordlessly to his feet, abandoning his books and knapsack to be picked up later. He walked stiffly, woodenly, as one making the final death march towards the gallows.

'_What the hell kind of trouble did he get himself into this morning?'_ Angela wondered. It was the first day – surely to God he hadn't gotten into a fight or told off a teacher yet. But then again, this was Dean, after all. He could get in trouble with a telephone pole.

And he looked like someone who knew he'd just stepped in it.

888

_So that fuckhead Walter went ahead and ratted me out_, Dean thought bitterly as he made his way on jello legs to the headmaster's office. The guy must obviously be a teacher or something, and it wouldn't take a rocket scientist to put two and two together: new student named Dean Winchester = Dean the prostitute he'd fucked last April. _God, it was five months ago!_ How did the stupid lard-ass even remember him? And now he'd gone and reported him and now Dean was going to be expelled. Then the reason he'd been expelled would run like wildfire through the rumour mill and people like that smirking snot-head Owen would know that Dean was a whore who'd spread it for fat pigs like Walter What's-His-Fucking-Name.

Angela would know. And, he had to swallow the lump in his throat, _Sam_ would know.

He choked back his feelings of shame and humiliation and absolute, gut-tearing dread and tried to hold his head up high.

_If I'm goin' down, I'm goin' down swinging_. If that rat bastard Walter had sold him out, he was going to take him down with him. One rotten turn deserves another, after all.

The main office was large and open, with a reception desk/work station where a middle-aged secretary tapped away on her keyboard and answered phones without missing a beat. She saw Dean enter and promptly put whomever she was speaking to on hold.

"Dean Winchester?" she queried politely.

Dean nodded, not trusting his voice to work just yet. He wondered if she knew, if she'd overheard any of the discussion between Walter-the-perv and the Headmaster. He tried to gauge from her looks whether or not she was shocked and disgusted by his mere presence. She smiled consolingly, congenially, and said, "Right this way," like nothing at all was the matter.

She led him past the photocopier and printer and fax machine, past the water cooler and down a short corridor that led to a closed door. Headmaster W.T. Cunningham.

"Please, take a seat," she instructed, indicating the two chairs adjacent to the large, oak desk in front of the window. "Headmaster Cunningham will be with you shortly."

"Thanks," Dean croaked, taking his seat and wiping his sweaty palm against his pants for the nth time that day. He was seriously considering getting some pit stick for his hands.

What the hell was he going to say to the Headmaster? He wondered. Would he even bother offering up excuses? Would he deny it? And what had Walter told him? Surely to God the man hadn't actually admitted to seeking out the company of an under-aged prostitute. He'd lose his job at best and end up in jail at worst. Maybe he'd lied, Dean thought. Maybe he'd made up some cock and bull story about having had an inside peek of Dean's criminal record – a record which was sealed because Dean was a minor.

No matter how many different angles he looked at the situation from, the only conclusion he could draw was that Walter had to be some kind of super moron. The risk of exposure was far more detrimental to Walter's future prospects at this school than it was to Dean's. Dean could go to public school if worst came to worst. But Walter, whoever he was, would be ruined.

His questions were answered, however, when the fat man himself entered the room, closing and locking the door behind him with an audible click, before easing himself imperiously behind the desk and taking a seat with a pompous, self-satisfied smirk on his chubby red face. Dean read the name on the nameplate on the desk again: W.T. Cunningham.

"Huh," he mused mirthlessly. "So... I'm guessing the 'W' stands for Walter, huh?"

888

There wasn't any point in beating about the bush, so Walter Cunningham cut straight to business. Time was of the essence, after all.

"Let's not mince words," he commanded, feigning an air of confident distraction even though his palms were sweaty and the very sight of that boy before him made his pants feel decidedly tight in the crotch. His mouth was so dry it was a wonder he could speak and his head was swimming with fevered heat.

"Fine," the boy retorted, eyes flinty hard and boring into his like daggers. "What do you want?"

Walter grinned, unable to suppress his excitement in spite of the fit of nerves threatening to unravel him. If he was going to win this he needed to be bold and confident. He needed to be in control of this entire situation so that he could pen the boy in, leave him with no options but to comply.

"You," Walter replied blandly.

Dean Winchester's head swivelled back at the neck, like ghost-induced whiplash had snapped him back, and the boy blinked twice in clear confusion.

"You're fuckin' kiddin' me!" he blurted out incredulously. "No way! No _fuckin'_ way!"

"Language," Walter warned. "And keep your voice down."

The boy's eyes darted about the room self-consciously before settling back on Walter.

"No. Fucking. Way." he ground out in a deadly quiet whisper.

Walter sighed and shrugged.

"I thought you might say that." He leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs with casual indifference.

"Let me guess... This is the part where you blackmail me?" Dean challenged archly. "Threaten to tell everyone my dirty little secret if I don't bend over for you?"

Walter shrugged again and the boy smirked.

"Listen pal," the boy went on. "I don't know what kind of crazy pills you forgot to take this morning, but you're the one that's gonna get dragged through the mud if this secret gets out – not me. People generally don't smile on dirty old pervert men who like to fuck little boys, even when the boys are whores."

Walter continued to smile blandly, enjoying how the young prostitute squirmed in his seat in his attempts to wriggle his way off the hook. It was useless, though. The kid didn't know yet what kind of leverage Walter had and was willing to employ to get what he wanted.

"You'll lose your job if you're lucky," Dean went on, gaining confidence. "And go to jail if you're not. You really willing to risk that just for the sake of getting laid?"

Walter shrugged yet again. "Maybe," he drawled.

"Just go find someone else!" the kid blurted out tiredly. "For Christ's sake, man! There's hundreds of kids sellin' it dirt cheap long as you know where to look. This – what you're doin' here? It ain't worth it!"

So much like a whore, Walter thought, to pretend to care, to make it about the John's needs instead of the whore's own well-being. They were like snakes, speaking out of both sides of their forked tongues.

"I don't think so," Walter said quietly. "That... wouldn't work for me."

Dean squinted at him in confusion.

"What?" he asked uncomprehendingly.

"Finding someone else," Walter explained. "See, much as I'd like to find someone local, there are very real, practical concerns about getting caught which, as you aptly pointed out, are far too risky. The cops here have regular stakeouts and numerous under-cover agents working to crack down on all forms of prostitution – a shame, really. If I were caught I could lose my job or go to jail. That's why," he added, "I went to such great lengths to seek you out in the first place. New York isn't exactly nearby, in case you haven't noticed."

"So you went on a journey to the promised land," the kid snapped. "Good for you. Hop back on a plane and find a new boy toy. I'm retired."

He had to give it to him, the boy had balls, and wit, and enough fire to light up a blaze in Walter's belly that stretched down to his toes and sent currents of pleasure straight to his cock, which was presently throbbing for attention at the boy's proximity.

"Not anymore," Walter said, shaking his head no. "Or at least, not for me. You can consider me a special customer."

"Fuck. You."

"All in good time," Walter rejoined with a chuckle. "Look Dean, I appreciate that you're trying to turn you life around. I really do, and in a way I applaud you for it."

The kid's eyes darkened and Walter forced himself to continue even though his resolve wasn't feeling quite so strong as it had been. This was the part where he pulled out his secret weapon, and it was one he loathed to use. But he had to. If he didn't the boy would never agree to his terms, and he needed to taste that flesh again, positively ached to sink into that tight heat again.

"But you're not fooling anyone but yourself," Walter said with feigned sadness, "if you think that you've left that life behind you. You are what you are. A tiger can't change his stripes. And you..." he raised his eyebrows in appreciation. "You were bred to do what you do. You wouldn't be so good at it if you didn't like it, if you weren't meant for it."

Walter's knees went weak when he saw the boy's beautiful, plush bottom lip tremble.

"Go screw yourself!" Dean whispered harshly, eyes misting.

"This will be our little secret," Walter went on, forcing calm he didn't feel. He just had to ignore the boy's pain so that he could bring him to the breaking point. Once the kid gave in he'd fall back into the role he played so well. He'd slip right back into the people-pleasing, accommodating slut mode he fit into so perfectly.

"No one needs to know."

"Are you deaf or just fucking stupid?" the kid demanded, almost yelling. "I'm pretty sure I'm not speaking fucking Japanese here – I said NO!"

And with that he stood up to leave.

"Don't expect me to come if you call me to your office again," he said as he made his way to the door.

"I wonder what Sam would think of the life you've lived," Walter mused aloud, his stomach twisting into knots when the boy froze with his hand poised above the lock on the door.

"Would he still look up to his big brother if he knew what his big brother has done?"

The kid didn't turn, didn't meet his gaze, and for that Walter was grateful. He'd taken out the big guns and was feeling rather sick for it. But it had to be done. He couldn't back down now. He'd crossed the point of no return. He had to see it through now.

"Or would he be disgusted with you, I wonder?"

The hand hovered over the lock, dropped fractionally, reconsidering it, and then raised again. Dean grasped the lock and prepared to twist it out of position – prepared to leave in spite of the threat to out him to the one person he cared about more than anything in the whole world.

"Or..." Walter licked parched lips. "Would he be curious? Would he smile with his big brother's wanton smile if I introduced him to a few friends of mine?"

Angry slivers of jade sliced through the distance between him as narrowed eyes rounded on him with murder in their depths. Dean turned like a flash and spun away from the door, taking three angry strides towards Walter's desk to stand fuming like a raging bull before the man blackmailing him.

"You fucking sonovabitch!" the boy positively hissed.

"He's a beautiful little boy," Walter forced himself to continue, still feigning confident indifference he no longer felt. "Not my particular cup of tea, obviously – too young, yet. But there are people out there who would jump at the chance to have a private audience with little Samuel Wesley, say... here in my office. I could certainly make arrangements."

"Why?" Dean demanded through gritted teeth. "Why would you do that?"

"You give me no choice," Walter said blandly, though he felt anything but bland on the inside. He wanted to throw up at the very suggestion of sending one of his online friends after an innocent boy like that, but the threat had hit home and shattered the boy's resolve in the way that nothing else could. Dean was breaking down and soon he would have him.

It was low, he knew, to bring the little brother into it, but there weren't many options left. Walter knew he could count on Dean's history as a prostitute to safeguard against any police involvement. People who had been where Dean had been, who'd seen what Dean had seen, learned early on that the police could not be counted upon to protect them. Distrust and disdain for authority figures, who they generally tended to see as apathetic and corrupt, made most of them wary of ever involving the law. Dean would avoid seeking any assistance or protection from the people he should because he'd come to accept long ago that there was no one he could rely on to protect him.

And if his little brother was threatened...?

"Anyone comes near my little brother and I will kill you," Dean whispered in a deadly cold whisper tinged with anguish. "I'll kill you and every single one of your pervert sonovabitch friends!"

"Maybe you will," Walter shrugged, "maybe you won't. But the damage will be done. Sam will be a whore just like his big brother. A family business, you could say."

There was so much anger and defiance and rage behind those gorgeous green eyes that Walter felt his breath steal away from his lungs. He tried not to gasp at the sheer enormity of the emotions rolling off the young prostitute before him in rippling waves. He almost had him.

"And in case you doubt me," Walter heard himself say, "consider this. I was able to find you in New York City through certain online channels that aren't monitored by the police because they're very neatly hidden. They fall under the radar, but you can find them if you know where to look. Your friend Vincent solicited me in a local chat room, offering up pictures of you as appetizers. But there were other men in the chat who turned you down – wanting to know if there was anything younger up for offer on the menu, wanting to know if maybe you had a younger brother.

"I'm not bluffing when I tell you this," Walter cautioned. And he wasn't. This was the God's honest truth. "There were several men – local men – who expressed a keen interest in meeting any younger siblings you might have. I took the liberty of e-mailing one of them just this afternoon and he was very excited to hear about Sam."

Those murderous green pools widened in sheer panic. The lip trembling resumed in earnest and the mist on his eyes puddled to a thick, glistening glaze.

"What..." the boy gulped, his breath hitching in his chest. "What did you tell him... about Sam?"

"I told him you might have a little brother after all," Walter replied with feigned nonchalance. "Told him I might be able to make arrangements for him to meet little Sammy privately. One word from you, though, and I'll reply that I was mistaken."

It would have been heartbreaking if it weren't his moment of triumph: something behind those defiant green eyes broke, the thick barriers and walls the boy Dean had constructed to keep himself safe all these years crumbled away, leaving the boy vulnerable and raw and exposed. The kid was well and truly trapped and he knew it. He couldn't and wouldn't turn to the police. He didn't trust his own newfound family to protect him or his brother well enough to turn to them, and he believed that Walter would make good on his threat to turn his little brother over to the rapacious lust of some pervert.

Walter knew when he had won.

"Please," the boy begged in a broken whisper. "Call him off! Tell him you made a mistake! Don't let him hurt Sammy!"

His lip quivered and a few rogue tears made their lazy renegade descent down his flawless cheeks to pool under his chin. It was almost a sin how much this boy loved and lived for his little brother. He'd read all about it in his file. Peter and Jane Wesley had been so good as to provide glowing testimonials to help gain him admittance, waxing poetic about Dean's kind and loving nature, his protective and doting adoration of his little brother and the little Wesley girl. It had been all too easy to form this little plan: a few e-mails to his online buddies to generate some interest (as well as proof) to scare the boy into complying. It was too easy, though bought at a heavy price.

"So I won't be fucking myself then?" Walter asked pointedly, arching an eyebrow.

Dean shook his head no, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "Just promise me no one'll come after Sammy. I'll..." he swallowed hard and sniffed. "I'll do anything you want. Long as I know nothin'll happen to Sam. Or Suzie."

"You have my word," Walter grinned. He could already feel those sinful lips on his dick.

888

Something was broken on the inside. It felt as though someone at taken a hatchet and aimed one solid stroke to the hard shell at his core, the one that kept all the anger and hatred and pain and shame and darkness locked tightly away on the inside, and cracked him open, twisting it to split him through the centre where he promptly broke in half and spilled outward in a messy gush. There were no walls to protect him, no walls to hide behind, no walls to lean against for support or to rely on. He'd let his guard down, grown complacent, dared to hope, and had allowed life to sneak in and strike a blow to his sensitive underbelly. He'd been unprepared, unguarded, and now he was haemorrhaging.

He hadn't escaped. He knew that now. Vincent and New York and his horrible past dogged his every move and there was no outrunning it, no hiding from it or disguising himself. He wasn't fooling anyone when he put on the goddamned uniform and pretended to be some quality student living the apple pie life. He was tainted. A fucking stain that dirtied everything he touched. His dirty past had almost got Sam dragged into this fucking freakshow of a life. Sam had almost had those eyes, those freakish pervert eyes drinking him in to devour him, strip away his purity and goodness so that eventually Sam would be as sullied and worthless as Dean was.

He could still taste W.T. Cunningham's cum on his lips, in his mouth, coating the back of his throat. Could feel the ramrod hard pumping into the back of his throat, those fat hips bucking forward into his mouth, that chubby hand on the back of his head, guiding and urging him.

Because that's what Dean was good for. Angela Platt was off learning about 'Dust Bowl' angst in English class, along with twenty-five other quality students who probably didn't know the first thing about sucking cock, while Dean was on his knees before the Headmaster being a good little whore. It was all he was good for. It was all he would ever be.

He could still feel the bloated probing finger snaking down his pants and forcing its way into his ass, could hear the panted exclamation of, 'Still so fucking sweet and tight,' when the old perv had insisted on just getting a feel of inside with promises of more to come on Friday – Friday when they could go somewhere alone, somewhere private, somewhere where they wouldn't need to be quiet or discreet. Somewhere where they could fuck without getting caught.

Dean needed to get out of that school _rightthefucknow_. He couldn't bear to be seen, couldn't bear to be noticed, to have eyes fall upon him, knowing what he'd just done. Knowing what he was when they weren't.

He didn't remember where he'd left his bookbag and quite frankly didn't care. He just needed to go. He moved as fast as he could without all-out running, feeling the tears burning behind his eyes even as he blinked through them, struggling to keep them at bay just a little bit longer.

_Just get outside!_ He screamed inwardly. _You can lose it when you get out of here. Just not here. Don't lose that last little piece of yourself here. Not here._

He passed the cafeteria on swift feet, not bothering to look left or right in case he saw someone, anyone who might recognize him and to engage him in conversation. Not that it was likely, considering how few friends he had here, but with his luck that lame-ass Owen would show up smirking about Dean being sent in on his first day to the Headmaster's office and Dean would just fucking lose it.

He passed a wide sweeping staircase that led to the second floor and crashed, for the second time that day, into a warm body as it came careening into him from above. A startled gasp, an elbow in his bruised rib, and a few murmured exclamations of surprise, and Dean found himself staring into wide, grey, googly eyes.

Fuck no!

* * *

**End Notes:**

To anyone who was wondering, Dean is a good actor (as we well know). So all that stuff in the memory with Walter was for Walter's benefit. In case you thought Dean secretly liked being porked by older guys -- he doesn't! Emphatically _does not_. But he's good at telling people what they want to hear and making them believe it (especially in those types of situations). But since we had Walter's POV in that scene, we couldn't see or hear what Dean was thinking or feeling.

Just wanted to clarify that in case anyone got the wrong idea and thought Dean secretly liked it. Again -- nope nope _nope_.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Notes:**

Here we go ladies! Sorry for the delay. I tried writing every chance I got alone, but I'm still away visiting and don't have many chances to actually sit down and write. Either way, it still feels rushed. Definitely not the strongest chapter of the story, but meh... What can you do?

There's some serious angst/pain in this chapter that tapers off (hopefully) into some funny. For those of you who are worried, there will be a resolution to the Walter Cunningham thing -- soon. But this chapter just deals with the fall-out of Dean's encounter with the Headmaster.

* * *

Chapter 19

The bell rang and there was still no sign of Dean. He hadn't returned from the Headmaster's office to collect his books and she feared now that he was in more trouble than she'd initially imagined. Or maybe it was his shoulder, she thought hopefully. Maybe the Headmaster had merely been welcoming him to the school in person and they'd lost track of time doing a tour or something, and in the interim Dean had been sent home because he was clearly in pain and needed his meds.

Angela convinced herself that the latter scenario had in fact taken place and took it upon herself to collect his books, stuffing them into his bag, so that she could give them to Sam to take home to him. That, or she could bring them to him in person and use that as an excuse to apologize for being an idiot. He deserved an apology, after all.

"Great friend you've got there," Caroline muttered as Angela slung Dean's loaded knapsack onto her other shoulder and made her way to the door behind the rest of the exiting crowd.

"What?"

"First day and already he's in trouble," Caroline explained. "I'm telling you Angie, you really do know how to pick 'em."

"Shut up," Angela retorted. She really wasn't in the mood to get into this again. She just wanted to find Dean and make things better. She needed to make things better.

"He might not be in trouble," Neil chimed in from her left and Angela felt herself relaxing in grateful relief. "Maybe the Headmaster was welcoming him to the school or something. Seeing as he's new and all."

"I doubt it," Caroline scoffed. "Did you see the look on his face when he got called to the office? He looked like someone who knew he was totally busted."

And that was what, among other things, had Angela Platt worried sick.

She made her way down the hallway and hurried toward the top landing of one of two twin sweeping staircases in the hopes of catching Sam Wesley somewhere on the main floor during the break between classes. She could give him the bookbag and ask him if he'd seen his brother at all in the last hour. She doubted it, really, but figured it couldn't hurt. She really wanted to find Dean.

Instead what she found was Mr. Denne, the music teacher, blocking the stairwell as he grinned widely and took her aside for a private chat about band auditions.

"I didn't see your name on the sign-up sheet," he said to her conspiratorially, whispering in spite of the crowd rushing past. "I hope you're still planning on joining band this year?"

"Oh yes," she assured him. "I'm not ready to give up the clarinet just yet, Mr. Denne. Don't worry about that."

The gangly man heaved a sigh of relief and ran a spindly hand through wispy, whitish hair.

"I think we've got a really good chance of winning this year," he said excitedly, and she could see Neil nodding to her left, having joined the conversation without invitation.

"Mmm... yeah," she replied absently. The crowds were thinning out and she really wanted to get to Dean or Sam.

"The Board of Directors has expanded the budget for our Music Department this year," Mr. Denne whispered, his voice slightly aquiver with excitement. "It's going to be a good year, Angela. A good year!"

She allowed a grin in spite of her growing worry.

"I think you're right." _God, I hope you're right_. "Anyway... I need to drop this off," she indicated Dean's bookbag with a shrug that caused the bag to slip from her shoulder. "See you tomorrow, Mr. Denne!"

And without another word she hefted the heavy bag back onto her shoulder and began her quick descent down the stairs. Neil and Caroline were hot on her heels, perplexed that she was going in the wrong direction and hissing warnings and incredulous questions at her back.

"Angie, where are you going?" Caroline demanded in a harsh whisper in the now empty stairwell.

"We're going to be late for Biology!" Neil agreed, keeping step with his two female friends. "Look, everyone else is already in class!"

And it was true. The halls were relatively empty, the corridors above and below the stairs devoid of student life now that everyone had reassembled in their respective classrooms. But Angela had a bad feeling. A very, very bad feeling. She needed to get to Dean, or Sam, find out where he'd run off to. Maybe she could go to the Headmaster's office and see if he was still there?

She picked up the pace and almost took the stairs two at a time, smiling faintly in relief when she reached the bottom step and pivoted around the banister to make a sharp turn towards the Headmaster's office. She didn't see the blur of someone rushing past, didn't realize that she was on a collision course with the very person she sought, until she felt the impact of her body crashing on top of his as the two of them landed in a painful tangle on the floor.

"Ow!" she groaned, while Caroline and Neil both made surprised exclamations of '_Are you okay?_' and '_Careful!_' She rubbed at her tender abdomen, where her attacker's knee (or maybe she was the attacker and he was the victim?) had connected with her belly on impact. She was such a klutz! Maybe Dean was right – maybe they needed to put rubber bumpers around her to keep the world safe from her head-on collisions.

She was about to offer up an apology when she felt the body beneath her squirming madly to get away. She looked up in time to see startled green eyes that were wide as saucers and slightly red-rimmed, as though he'd been crying. It was Dean. She'd run smack dab into her friend.

"Dean!" Angela gasped. "Oh my God, are you okay?" She'd ploughed into him, knocked him over, and landed on top of him, and if the pale-green hue to his skin was any clue, he must have been in a lot of pain, the Oh-God-it-hurts-so-much-I'm-gonna-hurl kind of pain. But there was something else, too. Something was... _off_.

"Wha—" she began but was cut off.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Dean swore venomously. "What the fuck is the matter with you? Are you fucking blind?"

He made a mad scramble to get to his feet and glared at her with overbright, too green eyes.

"I... I mean..." she stuttered, completely taken aback. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."

"You know this whole klutz thing is getting kinda old," he added scathingly, dusting off his pants with an angry huff before allowing his scowl to rake across Caroline and Neil in turn. "Not to mention being kinda transparent."

"She said she was sorry," Caroline defended hotly. "No need to be an asshole."

"Well you'd know all about that, wouldn't you Elvira?"

Angela was shocked and hurt and even a little scared at the wild, feral glint in his eye. She'd never seen Dean this angry before, never seen him look so ferocious, never heard his voice sound so cutting, so cold, so full of hatred and anger. And in the few months that she'd known him and called him her friend, she'd never imagined he'd ever look at her like that, ever speak to her like that.

Caroline was making ready with her retort, puffing her chest out to bellow out some kind of earth-shattering comeback that would no doubt have left them all reeling, when Angela stopped her with a hand shot out in warning. Her focus was all on Dean – Dean who looked like a caged animal pushed beyond the brink, skittish and ready to snap at anyone who came near.

"Dean, what happened?" she asked gently.

Those wild eyes blinked once and darted in her direction, looking wet and pleading behind all that anger. Dean turned to face her again, pulling up his trademark smirk in a grotesque imitation of the original, all cold and plastic and almost inhuman in how unnatural it looked on his face in that moment.

"Don't you have things to do?" he asked archly as his cheek twitched into a sneer. "You know, hanging out in cornfields, frightening away the crows?"

And it stung, deeply, to hear him say it, to have him acknowledge with words, to her face, that she was ugly. But this wasn't him. She had to remind herself that this wasn't him. It was the animal, primal response in him to lash out – like that caged animal. Whatever had set him off, Dean Winchester wasn't really in the driver's seat anymore. Something far more visceral was motivating him, the animal instinct was acting on auto-pilot in response to some serious suffering. He was wounded, though she couldn't guess how, and he was looking to make a hasty retreat, even if he had to cut his way through her to do it.

"You're a jerk!" Caroline growled, but Dean ignored her.

"Just leave me the fuck alone!" Dean ordered harshly before ploughing ahead down the hall. Angela watched in numb shock as her friend stalked away towards the front doors of the school.

"What an asshole!" Caroline exclaimed. "I can't believe he said that to you."

"I'll be right back," Angela muttered absently.

"I sure as hell hope you're following him to _tell him off!_" Caroline shouted at her retreating back, but Angela really wasn't listening.

She moved on auto-pilot, her movements jerky and wooden, automatic, reflexive, without any conscious thought of where she was going or what she was doing. She just needed to get to Dean. Every instinct in her was screaming silent alarms in her head, and she knew, judging by what she had seen, that something had happened. Something had spooked or upset Dean, maybe both, and he was running from it like a city-dweller from the plague. And she would be damned if she'd let him suffer through whatever this was on his own. He needed her now, whether he wanted to admit it or not, and she was going to be there for him. Even if it broke her heart.

By the time she reached the double doors at the front entrance Dean was long gone. Angela stepped out into the sunshine and squinted through the light, shielding her eyes with a hand to her brow as she scanned the neighbourhood for some sign of her wayward friend. But there was no sign of him. He'd made a hasty retreat, cutting across the empty parking lot, maybe, or through the basketball court into the sheltering trees nearby. Or across the street toward the park.

She bit the inside of her cheek in thought and took a chance on the trees, figuring Dean would want privacy and shelter and cover, something he'd be much more likely to get in the woods, rather than in the park or on the open street. He was upset, visibly upset, like a hair's breadth away from losing it upset, and if it were her she'd have taken cover in the trees to hide herself away in the shelter of the branches overhead. Having made her decision, she cut across the empty basketball court and jogged toward the nearby tree line, pausing on the threshold of the green canopy and taking a deep, steadying breath.

She didn't have to go far. The woods weren't that big, and there were only so many places he could go. Within seconds she could hear the unmistakable sounds of someone sobbing, deep, broken sobs that shook her to her very core. Angela walked on trembling legs towards the sounds of her friend's misery, where she found him crouched down in a seated position over a felled tree, curled in on himself, head hanging low to his chest, his left hand clutching and grasping futilely at his short-cropped hair, shoulders rocking with shuddering sobs.

Her whole life Angela Platt had never seen anyone look so broken. Dean's sobs were raw and primal, his whole body shaking with the depths of his soul's cry. He wept unabashedly, as if he had nothing left to lose, or as if he'd lost everything, an anguished, gut-deep mewling that made Angela's lip tremble and caused tears to well up in her eyes. She'd never seen anyone cry like this, except maybe in the movies, and had never imagined in a month of Sundays that she would ever see _Dean_ so vulnerable and lost and completely _undone_ like this.

And she didn't know what to do. He hadn't asked her to come here and would probably be furious with her if he knew she'd followed him. But seeing him now, like this, she knew that it was the right thing to do. He needed her here even if he didn't want her here. God, he needed to know that he wasn't alone, that he didn't have to bottle everything up inside and then let it out like this. So she did what her Nanny Florinda would do whenever Angela was upset – she sat down next to him and took him in her arms, pulled him close and held him to her, shushing him when he tried to protest, shushing him when he tried to squirm away, clinging tighter and holding on for dear life so that he would just stay with her, so that he wouldn't slip away into that dark hole she could see threatening to swallow him up.

Dean protested at first, made a few feeble attempts to tear himself away, but his heart wasn't in it. He was a living, breathing, open wound, his pain having morphed into a palpable, tangible thing that weighed so heavily upon him that all he could do was cling to her to keep breathing, to keep from drifting away and losing himself completely. His one usable hand fisted into the fabric of her matching sweater-vest, his chin burrowing into the crook of her neck, and he cried like he had no shame, cried like no one was watching. He cried like the crying hurt him, like his lungs couldn't get enough air, like his eyes were bleeding pain, like his soul had been mortally wounded.

And she shushed him and held him close and rocked him and allowed her own tears to fall where they would. She didn't know what was wrong, what had happened, and she knew that now was not the time to ask. If she spoke it would shatter the illusion of safety. His walls would slam back down into place, he'd pull away from her and would try to save face somehow.

He didn't need words, and he certainly didn't need to explain himself. Not now. Right now he just needed comfort, needed something to cling to. So Angela was glad to be his life preserver. She held him close, knowing that the way they were sitting, the way his torso was twisted at the hip to lean into her touch, was probably pulling on his injured collarbone, but he didn't seem to mind it so she held her peace and held on to him ever more tightly. She held on to him and tried telling him through gentle fingers stroking his hair that she wasn't going anywhere, that everything would be okay, that she was there and he wasn't alone and whatever was wrong they would fix it. When she said 'Shhhh' in that soothing voice she carried with it a million other words that she hoped bled through with the warmth and love she felt for him.

God he was a mess! At some point he'd taken off the pale grey sweater-vest and dumped it on the ground and possibly trampled on it, if the matted chunks of dirt and what looked like shoe print scuff marks in the fabric were any indication. Then, to add insult to injury, he'd puked on it, a physical manifestation of the hatred he had for that particular article of clothing, or maybe just a testament to how bad he was feeling. Maybe both.

"I wanna go back," Dean suddenly whispered into her shoulder. "Gotta... gotta go back."

"Okay," she replied soothingly. "Whenever you want. Whenever you're ready."

He didn't look ready to go back, but what did she know? Maybe he'd pull out his cocksure grin like slipping into a mask and fool everyone into thinking he was okay when really he was a mess underneath. She'd seen him do it before.

"Can't we go back?" he asked brokenly, pulling away fractionally to look into her eyes. What she saw in those endless depths stole her breath away: like a deep and endless night had settled in behind the green, a canopy of black void, of nothing, of _noone'shome_, of _lost_, painting the landscape of his soul.

She had a feeling he wasn't talking about going inside.

"Why can't it just be summer forever?" he pleaded, those eyes boring into hers so deeply she felt vulnerable and naked at the intensity of that probing gaze. "We were happy, right? Why can't... why can't we go back?"

"Well..." she mused.

"And if you tell me nothing gold can fucking stay, I will kick your ass!" Dean warned.

She was such a fool. Such a colossal, epic, goddamned fool. _We were happy, right?_ He'd said. _Why can't we go back?_ Fear had made her blind and stupid, it turned out. All day she'd been back and forth worrying about Dean thinking, or rather realizing, he was too good for her that she'd allowed herself to lash out at him, had assumed the worst of him, had pushed him away when all he wanted to do was cling to what he knew. He wanted things to stay the same as much as she did, maybe more, from the sounds of it.

_We were happy, right?_ Those words haunted her. She'd made him happy this summer? Being friends, spending time together with Adam and Sam and Suzie, had made him happy? She felt her lip trembling, the ache in her throat returning with crushing force, at the weight of that realization. There was nothing on heaven or Earth brighter than basking in the light of Dean Winchester's love. And she'd been in it and had been too scared to notice.

"Life's about change," Angela tried, treading very carefully. "But I'm here, Dean. I'm not going anywhere."

Dean huffed a mirthless laugh as the tears continued their steady cascade down blotchy red cheeks, his lips and cheeks quivering with barely restrained anguish that Angela couldn't even hazard a guess as to the cause of.

"And Sam's not going anywhere. Nor Jane or Peter or Suzie. Nothing has to change the way you're worried it will."

"It already has," he whispered dejectedly, his eyes empty though pooling with tears. "Just... all it takes is just one second and then BAM! Rug torn right out from under you, you know?"

But Angela _didn't_ know. She didn't know what he was talking about and she wanted so badly to help him, to make it better, to make him see that everything would be okay. Eventually she was going to have to ask him what had happened, but right now didn't feel like the right time. She didn't want him to clam up. She didn't want him to pull away.

"Oh God, I can still taste it!" he moaned as he held a hand over his stomach and curled inward. "I tried... but I couldn't get rid of it. It's still fucking there!"

The alarms in her head were buzzing and whirring loudly now in warning. She was rapidly going from worried to downright terrified.

"What's still there?" she whispered quietly, probingly. "Dean... what did you do?"

Images of her distraught friend swallowing a container full of pills in a depressive moment of insanity lanced through her brain and made her breath quicken. Was he upset enough to have done something so foolish? Would he hurt himself if the pain was great enough? If he'd done something to himself she needed to know _now_.

"Dean," she pressed, more forcefully this time. "Dean, what did you do?"

He lowered his eyes and his face crumbled with renewed anguish and what looked like shame, his head ducking toward his chin as tears sprang with renewed energy from his pretty, pretty eyes.

"I'm fuckin' disgusting," he sobbed. "I don't belong here. God, this is such a fucking joke – all of this."

"Dean..." She was downright panicked now. The way he was talking, coupled with that lost, dead look in his eyes... Things were so much worse than she'd imagined and she didn't know what to do.

"Dean..." she tried again.

"I just wish it was over," he whispered, sucking in a hitched breath that caught three times on the inhale. "I just want it all to be fucking over."

"What. Did. You. Do?" she demanded, grabbing his shoulders with both hands and giving him a rough shake.

He shook his head in denial and chomped onto his bottom lip.

"That's it," she muttered resolutely. "We're going back inside to see the nurse. You're scaring the hell out of me, Dean!"

"NO!" he yelped, scrambling away and falling on the ground onto his ass. "I'm not goin' back in there! No fuckin' way!"

"Then I'm calling 911!" Angela retorted.

"Why the fuck would you do that?" he demanded with panic-stricken eyes. "I'm fine! Nothing... nothing happened."

She crouched down in front of him and laid a reassuring hand on his knee.

"Dean, you're freaking me out," she gently informed him. "You've gotta give me something here. I need to know what's going on. You're scaring me."

Those words, _'nothing happened,'_ were ominous. They said the very opposite. Very likely something _did_ happen, Angela thought. Though who had done it, and under what circumstances, were a complete mystery to her. She could see in his eyes that he'd said too much, or maybe that she had said too much.

And there it was – the walls coming down. It was like a switch in his brain went off, reminding him that he was open and vulnerable and that his secrets were about to be laid bare. And just like that his spine strengthened, his face hardened and that lost, haunted look receded into the background. Almost. But no matter how much he tried to look cool and composed, the tears continued to fall, and his whole frame continued to tremble with overwhelming emotion. He was barely keeping it in and it showed.

"I'm fine!" he insisted. "Nothing happened, okay?"

Angela frowned in confusion.

"You said that already," she mused. "But something obviously did happen. Did you... did you do something?"

"Like what?" His tone was defensive and somehow accusatory at the same time as his eyes jack-rabbitted nervously around the surrounding trees.

"I don't know!" Angela admitted in bewilderment. "You're just... Dean, please, I just wanna help you. I'm afraid you're going to hurt yourself. Or... you know, that you might already have... hurt yourself."

"I didn't," he adamantly denied. "I'm fine."

But he obviously wasn't fine. He looked broken and small and young – younger than she'd ever seen him look – his eyes hardening to hide the soft vulnerability within.

"Dean..." she let out a frustrated huff. "If you don't tell me what's going on I'm going to go fetch the Headmaster and let him sort it out."

"NO!" he shouted. "Fuck, Angela please! Just don't!"

The tears returned with renewed zeal.

"You've got to give me something." It was a hard line but she couldn't let him have his way – not if there was a chance he'd poisoned himself or something. She would be cruel to be kind if it meant keeping him safe. A real friend would risk a lifetime of hatred if it meant keeping the ones she loved safe.

He choked back another sob, clamping his jaw shut and flaring his nostrils through the tears, riding out the pain with deep breathing and no doubt sifting through the thoughts roiling through his brain.

"Can it wait?" he asked at length. "Can we just... can we get outta here? I swear I'll explain if you just... Please, just don't get anyone else involved, okay?"

"Dean, if you're—"

"I'm okay," Dean assured her, though he looked as far from okay as she'd ever seen him, including the time he'd been half-drowned on a riverbed with a freshly broken collarbone and dislocated shoulder.

"I know this looks... awful," he admitted with a mirthless laugh. "But I swear I didn't do anything. Well, not like you're thinking, anyway. I'm not gonna keel over an' die or anything."

That much was a relief, at least. Immediate danger averted. Probably.

"Then what is it?" she asked.

He wiped furiously at his streaming cheeks and drew a deep, fortifying breath.

"Later," he waved her off. "I just need to get out of here. I – _fuck_, Sam!"

"What about him?" Angela asked as Dean made a mad scramble to his feet.

"I gotta find him," he said with the determination and intense resolution of an escaped mental patient. "Gotta make sure he's safe..."

"Sam's fine," she assured him, helping him with a steadying hand as he wobbled at the sudden change in altitude. "He's in the school, for goodness sake!"

It was the wrong thing to say, apparently.

"I gotta get him outta there!" Dean announced.

"Dean, he's in the middle of class," Angela reasoned. "Where _we_ should be right now. Sam's fine. He's safe. And when school's out Mrs. Wesley will be there to pick him up. He's fine."

He hesitated, panic-stricken eyes pleading with her for more reassurance, for understanding, for comfort. She doubted he had ever been this vulnerable with anyone for a very long time.

"But..."

"Come with me," she coaxed gently. "We'll go to my house. Order some pizza and watch movies or something. Take your mind off all this. And when you're ready, maybe you can explain what happened today."

It was a testament to how much he meant to her that she was proposing they head off to her place to watch movies when they should be in class. On the first day of school. If things didn't seem so damned dire with her friend right now, Angela would swear she'd lost her freaking mind.

Dean nodded solemnly, his head to his chest.

"Yeah," he replied absently. "Your place."

888

She should have said no to the tequila, but when Dean Winchester was on a quest for booze he was like a dog with a bone. Nothing would stand in his way. She figured he'd have just gone somewhere else to fill that hole inside him, and the images of where he would go and what he would fill it with were enough to convince her that at least if he was shitfaced at her house she could keep an eye on him, could keep him from getting into too much trouble.

It was easier said than done. The booze hit him hard and fast, mixing with the residual drugs in his system and knocking him flat on his ass. The drunken, slurring mess sprawled in a heap on her couch laughing like a maniac at old Batman reruns was a far cry from the charming bad-ass she'd met at Derek Schuster's pool party. She'd thought Dean was some kind of marathon drinker that fateful 4th of July, with the constitution and metabolism of a trucker. Not so when you mixed in pain meds, it turned out. Now he looked like a fourteen year-old kid who was hammered and on the verge of passing out. She emphatically hoped he wouldn't puke on her couch. That would be a hard one to explain to her parents – and they didn't notice _anything_.

"I need'a Bat Diamond," Dean mused from his prone position on his back on the couch, peering up at the TV screen upside down. "Then I coul' pow'r my Bat Comput'r an' show it off to my Bat Friends."

"You could store it in your Bat Deposit Box at the Bat Bank?"

Dean chuckled from deep in his belly and rolled to his side to grin at her.

"'zactly!" pointing a finger at her enthusiastically. "An' then I could bang the Bat Bank Teller and make Bat Babies."

"I think someone on the set went nuts with a label maker," Angela agreed, ignoring the remark about making babies and the images of a rocking convertible in the parking lot of a water park that it evoked. "Have you noticed they named and labelled everything in the Bat Cave _Bat_-something?"

Dean nodded and flopped back onto his back.

"Ev'rthin' in iss place an' a place for ever'thin'. Batman's got a syss'em."

He seemed happy now, Angela noted. The alcohol had obviously done its intended job: it took the edge off his nearly debilitating anxiety and drowned his sorrows back to the dark cavern inside him where all his woes dwelled. If it weren't for the fact that it was, you know, four-thirty in the afternoon on a school day and Dean weren't drunk off his ass, she'd almost have thought that everything was fine. He was joking and laughing and all light-heartedness now. She wished she'd been able to get him to open up about whatever set him off before he started drinking.

The doorbell drew her from her brooding thoughts and Angela left Dean to his vintage Batman induced laughter while she went upstairs to answer it. The grim faces of Caroline and Neil as they waited at her doorstep had her wishing she'd just ignored the bell and remained with Dean in the rumpus room.

"Oh my God, are you okay?" Caroline demanded. "We were freaking out – you just _left!_"

Angela grimaced, at a complete loss for an excuse for her absenteeism that wouldn't send her overly-protective best friend through the roof.

"What happened?" Neil asked.

God, how did she explain the train-wreck and utter anomaly that was Dean Winchester?

"Did you guys fight?" Caroline pressed as she made her way past the threshold and into the foyer. "Did you tell him to go to hell?"

"Um..."

"Is everything okay?" Neil tried. He was always softer than Caroline, more passive, more open to hearing all sides of a story. Angela was especially grateful for her friend's kind and understanding disposition at that very moment.

"We uh... we talked," Angela hedged, shifting from one foot to the other.

"Again, did you tell him to go to hell?" Caroline repeated, dark eyes bulging expectantly.

"He didn't mean it," Angela defended. "He was upset and he lashed out at whatever was closest."

"So he gets a free pass to treat you like shit?" Caroline's face was set hard. "And you just run off to make him feel better, ditching school for some no-good pretty boy?"

"Caroline..." Neil warned quietly.

"I was helping _my friend_," Angela replied hotly. "I'd have done the same for you."

"Well that I would at least understand," her friend admitted with an angry huff. "I've been your best friend since we were six years old. But this guy... you've known him for like five minutes and you're bending over backwards for him. Letting him take advantage of your kindness."

"Caroline, come on," Neil tried again. "We don't know the whole story."

"You're right," Angela agreed emphatically, eyes set firmly on Caroline. "You don't. You weren't here this summer to meet him – you didn't see... you don't know how great he is."

There was a long moment of awkward silence as all three young teens stood staring at their own feet. They'd never really had anyone else break through into their inner circle. It had always been just the three of them. Dean was an outsider and, in Caroline's view at least, an invader. He was everything that they were not, and he fit in with them about as well as an orange in a barrel full of apples. And Angela didn't think she could explain what it was that had drawn her to him, what had prompted her to knock on his door to seek out his friendship. All girly crushes aside (and she knew now, more than ever, that her crush had blossomed into something far more dangerous and deeply rooted), there was something about Dean that called to her, and had done from the moment she set eyes on him at the McKinleys' house. But trying to explain his kindness and doting love for his baby brother and foster sister, his charm and side-splitting sense of humour, his protectiveness and infectious enthusiasm for the things he really liked, was like trying to explain the colour red to a blind person. So she was at a loss for words, as were her two very confused friends.

On cue, the silence was shattered by a belly-busting laugh from the rumpus room on the split-level downstairs.

"Is he _here_?" Caroline asked incredulously. Her eyebrows rose to her forehead with the intensity of her surprise and she took a few determined strides through the main entrance of the house to make her way to the door at the top of the stairs.

"Caroline wait!" Angela cried, catching her friend with a hand on her shoulder to stop her progress. "Now's not really a good time..."

Explaining how Dean was drunk in her basement in the middle of the afternoon was at the bottom of her list of things she wanted to do _ever_, especially to Caroline, who had clearly taken an instant dislike to her new friend and would use this as further ammunition against him.

"I smell a rat," the girl intoned with narrowed eyes. "Something's going on here and I want to know what."

And without another word she stormed through the door and thumped down the six stairs to the rumpus room below. It was dark without any lights on; the curtains had been drawn to head off any nosy neighbours, just in case. The TV was on, the old rerun of Batman flashing across the screen with images of a perverse, absurd, Batman wedding between the caped crusader and some blonde villainness with a bizarre penchant for diamonds.

"Ange, the priest ac'shally just said, 'Do you Marsha take this Batman to be your lawf'lly wedded husband,'" Dean's voice erupted through bubbles of laughter from the couch. "Do you take _this Batman_..." he repeated, holding his belly and writhing with laughter. "I swear to fuckin' God, this show is inspired, man!"

"Is he drunk?" Caroline asked, taking the eyebrows up a few more notches.

"Um... maybe?" Angela felt like squirming in her skin.

"It's the middle of the day, on a school day!" her friend whisper-shouted. "What the hell kind of alchy friend have you been hanging out with?"

"Huh?"

Dean staggered to a sitting position when he heard the harsh whispers and peeked over the back of the couch to see the assembled teens staring at him.

"Aw, crap!" he muttered, plunking back down with an 'oof' and a hiss of pain. "'Zis the par' where you offer me up as a sacri-_hic_... sacrifice to your wannabe witch friends?"

"Zip it, Dean!" Angela warned. "They just stopped by to say 'hi.'"

"Okay seriously," Caroline intoned, turning to her with the 'talk to me, I'm your best friend' face. "What is going on with you? Ditching school? Getting drunk in the middle of the day? This isn't you."

"I'm not drunk!" Angela defended.

"No, tha' would def'nitely be me," Dean corrected.

"I'm just..." Angela shrugged, lowering her voice. "I'm looking out for him, okay?" She turned her friends away from the TV, leading them back towards the pool table and out of earshot of Dean.

"Something happened today that really spooked him," she explained cryptically. "I'm not sure what it was. He wouldn't tell me. But he was really upset. Like... _really_ upset."

"And this?" Caroline queried, waving a hand in the general direction of Dean splayed drunkenly on the couch.

"Drowning his sorrows?" Angela offered up with a grimaced smile. "Look, I know it's not the best coping mechanism, but he was really freaked out and it seems to have calmed him down. At least he's not crying anymore."

Caroline's expression softened at that revelation, and Angela belatedly realized that she'd said too much. Dean wouldn't want anyone to know that he'd been crying – it went against his badass, tough guy image.

"Is he okay?" Caroline asked begrudgingly.

"For now," Angela shrugged. "Look, I know this look bad," she admitted. "And you're probably both thinking I've lost my mind. I wonder that myself sometimes... But he really is a good guy. He'd like everyone to think he isn't, but he is. One of the best, actually."

"You're looking all moony-eyed again," Caroline warned.

"He doesn't talk about it, but I think he's had it pretty rough," Angela confided in a low whisper. "Mom died when he was little; dad in jail. Grew up in foster care. He's had a hard life, I think."

"Yeah, well that's no excuse to be a jerk to you," Caroline whispered. "Sob story or no, he says anything else nasty to you again like that scarecrow comment and he'll be pissing through a straw."

"Can't make any guarantees," Angela chuckled. "Pretty much every time he opens his mouth he gets in trouble."

Things settled to an awkward silence as the three friends returned to the couch, where Dean had slipped into a drunken doze during their absence. Neil and Caroline shared a love seat while Angela sprawled out in the recliner, leg rest fully extended as she alternated between watching the TV and watching her inebriated friend. He looked so peaceful in sleep, the lines of his face smoothed out, his lips parted as he breathed heavily through his nose, his brows drawn slightly upward in a bemused, almost surprised expression. The peace she read on his face now was almost enough to undo Angela, remembering the absolute anguish she'd seen in him before, the tears that wouldn't stop, the pain inside that had made him moan in desperation. That sound he'd been making when she'd stumbled upon him... it broke her heart all over again.

"Hey-hey, you okay?" Caroline asked, noticing a stray tear making its traitorous descent down Angela's cheek.

Angela brushed it away absently and sniffed.

"Just been a hard day," she admitted wearily.

They watched Batman the TV series for a few minutes in awkward silence, consciously ignoring the elephant in the room named Dean Winchester. For his part, Dean was oblivious to the friction he was causing the young trio, lost as he was to tequila-soaked dreams of nothing. Then Angela started telling them about her summer, about how she and Dean had become Frisbee buddies, and about how she'd been helping him with his English. She told them all about Long Beach and the awesome family vacation she'd shared with the Wesleys and Dean, and about Dean's heroic rescue of the little girl. Neil was clearly impressed but Caroline tried her hardest to look cool and unaffected. Still, it was hard to hate someone who risked his life for a complete stranger like that, even for Caroline, who tended to hate anyone who was good looking and charming like Dean was.

He wasn't out long before the twitching started. Subtle at first, the odd tick in his cheek, and flick of the finger. Angela's heart stopped beating altogether, terrified that he was having another nightmare like the one she'd seen in Long Beach, and she knew she needed to wake him up because none of them wanted to see that now – not Neil or Caroline, and certainly not Dean, who would die of shame if there were new witnesses to his weakness. She bit her lip and strengthened her resolve to just give him a good shake to wake him the hell up. Now. He twitched again, his head snapping to the side with a sleepy gasp.

"Fuckin' cocksuckin' fucker..." Dean muttered, his nose scrunching into a grimace as his eyes fluttered beneath closed lids.

"He dreaming?" Neil queried.

"No, he's waking up," Angela corrected, crossing to the couch and clamping a hand down on Dean's uninjured shoulder.

"Come on, boozer. Time to get up."

He snorted and snapped to attention, his green eyes vivid bright and wild-looking, confused and pissed if the sharp draw of his brow was any indication.

"The fuck?" he grumbled, swinging his legs around and struggling to a sitting position with a groan of pain. "Wass ev'body doin'?"

He took in the sight of the three assembled teens and seemed to deflate, fight or flight response forgotten now that the nightmare threat was sufficiently removed. His eyes dimmed, his lip parting slightly as the wheels in his befuddled brain churned at a snail's speed. He wavered on the spot, swaying slightly, and bit his lip in contemplation.

"D'I pass out?"

Caroline's snorted laugh was answer enough.

"Hey, we shoul' order pizza," Dean propositioned brightly. "I'm starvin'. Could eat a freakin' horse."

"Well we're fresh out of horses," Angela teased. "But I wouldn't say no to a slice."

Dean grinned his adorable dopey grin and Angela felt her heart swelling.

"Adam home yet?" Leave it to Dean to have a little brother radar, even for someone else's little brother.

"He got home about an hour ago," she assured him. "And he told me Sam got picked up from school like he was supposed to. No kidnappers got him without you there to look out for him."

He heaved a sigh of relief and relaxed into the cushions of the couch.

"Awesome."

It was probably very wrong to be secretly glad that all of her friends were here with her, considering the circumstances that had brought them all here, but if it meant that she and her brother would have company for supper, that they wouldn't be eating alone yet again, then it couldn't be all bad, right? Neil and Caroline probably wouldn't stay too long, but Dean was here, and he liked Adam. They could order pizza and eat together and have a good time and forget about the scary things that made tough boys break down sobbing in the woods. Just for a little while, they could be happy and normal.

"I'll go order us something," Angela announced with a grin. "Dean, you maybe want to go brush your teeth or something?"

Dean frowned and tested his own breath against the palm of his hand, then grimaced as memory forced its way through the drunkenness. He hadn't brushed his teeth since he'd puked in the woods and the combination of vomit and tequila had to be working wonders on his breath.

"Right," he drawled. "Puke. Good times."

"You need a toothbrush?" she queried, but should have known better.

"Got it covered," Dean replied as he staggered to his feet. "A hunner always comes prepared."

Angela didn't know what a _hunner_ was, but she felt certain Dean would have packed a toothbrush and toothpaste in his bookbag. He was fastidious about dental hygiene, polishing his teeth to a pearly white finish daily in an amusing toilette ritual that never failed to make her chuckle. The boy took care of his teeth.

"Hey Ange," he called as he stumbled a few steps away from the couch. "Cn'you help me a sec?"

His left arm was pawing uselessly at the fittings on his sling.

"What's the matter, Dean?"

"Cn get't off!" he huffed, yanking ineffectually at the stretchy straps.

"Hang on," she ordered, long fingers easing the elastic straps loose and helping her friend as he eased the sling off his shoulder with a sigh of relief.

"Tha'ss better," he purred. "Free at last, baby."

She tried not to blush at being called 'baby,' her stomach fluttering at the sound of his honeyed drawl whispering _that word_. Neil and Caroline were both watching her like a couple of hawks, reading her for any signs of girly crushy sappiness. But she couldn't help it; she'd heard him calling Michelle 'baby' at the water park, and given the context, the fact that he'd said that word in her mere proximity was enough to make her tingle low in her belly.

"Dean, why are you taking this off?" she asked him in an attempt to distract everyone from her reddening cheeks.

"M get'n in the shower," he muttered. "M disgustin'."

"Well, you are kind of ripe," Caroline agreed dryly. Angela shot her a dirty look.

"Okay," Angela told him. "I'll get you a towel."

She scurried off in a rush, eager to put some distance between herself and the increasing awkwardness among the three figures behind her. Dean wasn't exactly being himself, being stupidly drunk as he was, but even if he'd been dead sober the situation would have been awkward. Neil and Caroline didn't know what to make of him, and Caroline's first line of defense in a frightening situation was always offence. And now Angela was having all kinds of naughty, wrong-feelings about a very drunk boy, memories of a rocking silver convertible in a parking lot making her blush deepen as she hurried away from the rumpus room to the bathroom down the hall. She snatched a big, fluffy blue towel off the towel rack and took a deep breath to steady herself.

_Get a grip woman!_ she told herself sternly. She didn't need an audience of friends witnessing how truly crazy she was around Dean. It was embarrassing as all hell.

When she came back to the rumpus room, however, it was to find that embarrassing didn't even come close. Dean was shirtless and glistening in his golden-skinned glory, kicking off his pants with dogged determination, his handsome face set in a frown as he teetered on his feet, wobbling as he hopped out of his dress slacks, completely oblivious to the protests of Neil and Caroline. His taut muscles rippled with the movement, and not for the first time Angela found herself wondering what right a fourteen year-old boy had having a body like that, with muscles that were so well-formed into a perfect, tight little six-pack along his abdomen.

"What are you doing?" Caroline demanded incredulously, while Neil just gaped and stuttered several useless strings of unfinished sentences. "Maybe you should... _Oh God_... Angela's coming if you wanna just..."

"Dean!" Angela called out sharply and her friend's bleary green eyes snapped to attention.

"Hey!" he beamed, swaying on the spot as his eyes drooped to half mast. "At's my googly-eyed girl, righ' there!" He pointed at her for emphasis, his grin broadening with pride. "She's the smar'est, most googly girl _ever_."

She'd have been so very insulted if he didn't look so damned happy about it, so fond, even, of the googly thing, as if it were an intimate term of endearment.

"Dean, what are you doing?" she pressed, towel clutched tightly in a white-knuckled grip.

"M gettin' in the shower," he shrugged. "'Member, I'm dis_gus_ting."

"Dude, you are _hammered_," Neil laughed.

"It's okay, Dean," Angela assured him. "The shower's right this way."

"Kay," he sighed and wrapped his left arm around her shoulder for a sideways, one-armed hug. "I'll juss... I'll juss get cleaned. Gotta get clean. 'M fuckin' disgusting." A little of the lost, forlorn expression stole its way across his handsome face as he looked at her. Then he heaved a heavy sigh, filling his lungs with air and then releasing it in a steadying breath. "An' then we'll have pizza."

"That's right," Angela soothed him. "You get cleaned up and then we'll have pizza."

He grinned dopily and stumbled on ahead, releasing her from the half-hug to tug at his boxers. She tried to cry out some kind of warning or protest but the words died in her throat when suddenly his bare ass was on display as he staggered ahead, tripping out of his boxer shorts on his way to the bathroom.

"Oh. My. _God_." Caroline gasped from behind her.

Dean Winchester sauntered proudly down the hall on drunken legs in full naked glory, excepting of course the white sports socks on his feet. Angela tried not to look – she really did – but was so beautiful, and he was right there, fully nude, his bare white ass looking all round and firm and perfect in contrast with all that tanned skin. There was nervous laughter behind her as her two friends gaped and tittered awkwardly at the sudden shift from PG-13 in the room.

"I take it back," Caroline said ruefully. "He can come over any time so long as he's dressed like that."

And then everyone promptly burst out laughing as the shower turned on and Dean began to sing down the hall.

* * *

**End Notes:**

Upwards and onwards, yes? Up next: Peter and Jane voice their displeasure at Dean's disappearance, and Angela learns a few lessons.

As before, the next chapter might be a while. I'm trying to write whenever I can, but the problem with visiting family and not being in your own space, of course, is that you rarely get five minutes to yourself (let alone the hours a project like this requires).

Thank you guys so much for your patience and for reading and reviewing! Your support has kept me going when I've thought about packing the whole thing in!


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter Notes:**

Sorry for the long wait!!! I got back home and the internet crapped out and things in RL went down the crapper. Suffice it to say, finding time and opportunity to write and post this thing has been a real pain.

I'm not sure I accomplished everything I'd hope to accomplish in this chapter -- there were some unforeseen twists that went where they would (hopefully not in a bad way). I also want to apologize for all the angst overload with the Walter arc of this story. I realize that it's pretty heavy and that it might feel like too much, but when it's resolved I have lots of good stuff planned (until the next bomb shell that is!).

Upwards and onwards!

* * *

Chapter 20

Angela's new friend was hot. Caroline was loath to admit it, but it was undeniably true. How a guy their age managed to get his body to look like that, with miles of flawless golden skin unblemished by zits or imperfections, with rock hard muscles underneath, was a complete mystery to her. He didn't have an inch of fat on him, and she had reason to know because he'd been drunkenly parading around the house in nothing but his boxer shorts since he got out of the shower. Every time Angela tried making him put some clothes on he'd shrugged her off, laughing and singing about how he was free as a bird now and a bird you cannot change. _Lord knows I can't change_, he'd sung, and the laughter hadn't reached his eyes, and a strange kind of sadness seemed to seep through his skin – though he hid it well with that cocky smile.

Caroline Mercer wanted to hate him. She really did. And in many ways it was easy to despise every inch of him, from his charming smile and pretty eyes to his perfect body and cocksure attitude. He was loud-mouthed and swore too much, and had about as much sensitivity as a gremlin fed after midnight. He was boorish and ignorant and seriously lacking in social skills. He made it damned easy to hate him.

But Caroline was starting to maybe get why Angela liked him so much. Damn the guy was funny. She and Neil had been taking advantage of the poor guy's inebriated state and had somehow started a competition of I-Bet-You-Won't with Dean that very quickly degenerated into making him eat gross stuff to test his self-proclaimed ungaggable gag reflex. They'd seen him eat two tablespoons of mustard, a ketchup and mayonnaise cocktail, and two whole raw eggs cracked from the shell straight to his mouth, and though he'd shuddered as he swallowed, he hadn't gagged.

"Guys, enough," Angela pleaded as they scoured the cupboards for the next disgusting thing to try on Dean. "He might not be gagging now but he's drunk enough that this is all gonna come back up eventually."

"S'okay, Ange," Dean placated with a hiccup and a winning smile. "We're havin' fun. S'all good."

Even little Adam was joining in on the fun. When he'd learned that his big sister's newest best bud was hanging around, the little runt had taken it upon himself to join them, his eager little hands searching out new and disgusting things to try. And Dean just ruffled the boy's hair as if he liked having him around, which was just weird, in Caroline's opinion.

"How about this?" the kid suggested as he emerged from the fridge with a bottle of Lea & Perrins. "Wor-chester-shire Sauce..." he read slowly.

"Aw, nasty!" Neil exclaimed with glee. "Give him that! Give him that!"

"Guys, come on!" Angela whined. "He's had enough. Let's find a new game."

"You wanna give tha' a try, lil' man?" Dean challenged Adam. "I'll do it if you will."

For his part, the ten year-old looked very hesitant. He eyed the bottle warily and twisted his little mouth in thought.

"I don't know," he hedged. "I'm still pretty full from the pizza."

"Sure y'are," Dean teased, but let the kid off the hook by snatching the proffered bottle and unscrewing the cap. "Bottom's up!" And just like that he tilted his head back and allowed the cold sauce to slowly drip onto his tongue.

Good God it was disgusting! Dean had to have ingested several pounds worth of condiments since the betting wars had begun, and though he hadn't gagged yet, Angela was right that the stuff had to be stirring up trouble in his gut. He downed a whole mouth full of the Worchestershire Sauce without batting a lash, though he did make a disgusted face when he swallowed.

"Bleh, water!" he croaked, reaching wildly with his good arm while Angela rushed to refill his glass so he could rinse away the taste.

"There, Dean, you win!" Angela announced firmly. "You have the best gag reflex in the entire world. You put us all to shame."

"Damned straight," he drawled, and Caroline couldn't help noticing how much he _didn't_ sound like someone from New York. There was something distinctly southern about his accent, a sort of lazy lilt that screamed 'Country Boy,' along with the guy's bow-legged swagger.

"Well I should probably get going," Neil said at length. "It's getting late and I've got homework to do, so..."

Caroline glanced at the clock and saw that it was 8:30. _Crap!_ She'd kind of lost track of time with the nudity and pizza ordering and subsequent fridge-raiding. Dean Winchester was a distracting sonovabitch, that was for sure.

"Me too," Caroline said emphatically. "My Mom's gonna be calling here any minute for me to drag my butt back home."

Sometimes Angela forgot that normal parents wanted and needed to know where their kids were, and by the confused look on her face it was clear that now was no exception. She shrugged and waved in the general direction of the phone by way of apology.

"You can call her and let her know you're on your way if you want," she offered. "Now that I think of it, though... Maybe I should give Mrs. Wesley a call. She's probably wondering where Dean's gotten to."

Turned out that was a bit of an understatement.

888

Jane tried not to worry, tried not to do the nosy Mom thing by prying or hovering or needing to know where her kids were at all times, but with Dean late from school with no word of his whereabouts, it was hard not to. She'd watched the clock with a growing sense of trepidation, listened to Sam poking fun of her for being a mother-hen where Dean was concerned, and tried her best to look relaxed when inside she was bristling with all kinds of antsy feelings tightening up her guts.

Sam hadn't seen him at all during the day once the boys had separated to go to their respective classes, but they all assumed that Dean had gone somewhere with Angela after school ended. It made sense. But then supper came and went with no sign of him and Jane's feeling of unease grew. Dean knew he was expected at the dinner table – it was a rule of living in the Wesley household. So Jane decided something must be wrong.

When the school called to inform her that Dean had skipped off and played hookie for most of the afternoon, alarm bells sounded in her head. Something was _definitely_ wrong.

Jane wasn't delusional: she knew that Dean was a troubled boy, and that he had a lot of issues. She knew that he was prone to acting out, had a rather colourful vocabulary and was often-times incapable of holding his tongue or showing respect to his elders, especially if those elders didn't show him respect in return. She knew that, in most peoples' eyes at least, Dean was a bad seed. So it shouldn't have been a surprise to her that he'd ditched school to go off and do God only knew what.

But she also knew that Dean was desperate to impress his foster-grandfather, and that ditching school after he'd fought so hard to gain admittance would undoubtedly bring on the disapproval of the stern old patriarch. Dean had been terrified to go to school that morning, there was no dying it, but he'd promised that he would do his best to behave, that he'd stick to his studies and put his best foot forward.

The fact that he hadn't even made it a full day without breaking his promise was all Jane needed to know. Something had happened and Dean had run away from it. And it scared her down to her bones.

The first order of business was calling Angela Platt. If anyone would know where Dean had gone off to, it was the love-struck teen. So naturally Jane tried there first, only to find that the line was busy. She waited and tried again. And again. And again. But the line remained busy. She spoke with her husband, who begged her to remain calm and urged her to go have a nice relaxing dip in the pool to settle her nerves; but when she emerged forty-five minutes later and the line was still busy, Jane Wesley went from worried to full-out panicked.

That was how the entire Wesley clan, sans Dean, ended up packed into the van at 8:30 on a Monday night, to drive a few streets over to the Platt house in search of the missing teen. Peter wanted to come to both keep his wife in line and offer support in case all the dire warnings in her head turned out to be true, but neither parent felt it was safe to leave Sam and Suzie alone at the house. So they'd all packed into the van when they could as easily have walked, and made their way to Angela's house.

"You two wait in the car," Peter instructed Sam and Suzie. "We'll be back in a few minutes."

"Sure, Dad," Sam said with a huff and an eye roll.

They left the children in the car and made their way to the front door of the Platts' house. Giving her husband a nervous glance, Jane reached with a trembling hand for the doorbell and pressed.

What she saw on the other side of that door was far and away beyond what she'd expected to find.

The kids were safe. That most important fact was established and logged away with twin sighs of relief. Angela had a few friends over, it appeared, who were standing at the doorway looking contrite and oddly guilty as they shuffled into their shoes to say their goodbyes while Angela attempted to mix pleasantries with her friend's parents as she greeted them. An odd assortment of kids, Jane thought: a pretty though dramatic-looking young girl with black hair and overly dark make-up and a tall, slightly chubby boy with a baby face like Peter's, keeping company with the gangly, mousy-haired Angela and Dean... Dean who stuck out like a sore thumb but who was noticeably absent from the scene, having chosen that very moment to take an extended pee break.

"Can you please let Dean know that we're here and that it's time to go home?" Peter suggested kindly.

"Um... yeah, sure," Angela stammered, looking decidedly uneasy. "It's just... uh... You should probably know..." She bit her lip in thought and squirmed within her skin where she stood.

The two retreating teens shared nervous glances and scurried to the door with apologetic looks before sneaking off into the darkening night sky and closing the door behind them. As soon as they were gone and the room had fallen into an awkward silence, Jane rounded with worried eyes onto her foster son's young friend.

"Angela, what happened today?" she demanded quietly. "I got a call saying that Dean had ditched school this afternoon, and that you had ditched with him."

It wasn't a question but there was clearly a question behind it. Jane Wesley wanted an explanation.

"I-we-he," Angela stuttered nervously. "I don't really know what happened, Mrs. Wesley. He freaked out and I had to get him out of there."

"Out of where?" Peter asked.

"School," she supplied, sucking in her bottom lip and chewing on it. "It was bad. Really bad. He was crying and I couldn't get him to clam down... So I convinced him to come here, but then he started drinking, and –"

"Wait, Dean started _drinking?_" Jane demanded. "On a school night?"

Angela nodded emphatically.

"Oh yeah," she said. "He's wasted. Started in on the José Cuervo some time after 3:00 and has been floating off to La-la Land ever since."

Both Wesleys just stared at the young girl in disappointed bewilderment. They'd expected Dean to have gotten into some kind of trouble, but this was really something else. Somehow that boy managed to make mountains out of molehills, especially when he decided to break the rules. Jane wondered idly why he couldn't just go spray paint school property like any other self-respecting hooligan.

"And you didn't think to call us?" Jane asked archly. "Dean has an episode like that and you didn't think that we should be involved to help take care of the situation? Instead you let him drink himself stupid on a school night and invite friends over to party it up? I thought he was your friend, Angela."

The girl's face fell with mortification.

"I am his friend!" she pleaded with tear-filled eyes. "It-it didn't happen like that, I swear!"

"So you didn't invite your friends over?" Jane pressed.

"NO!" Angela denied vehemently as the tears began to fall. "No, never! I wouldn't do that to Dean, I swear! It's just he was such a mess when we got here... He kept muttering 'I need an effing drink!'" Her cheeks burned crimson at the euphemism. "He wouldn't take no for an answer, so I thought that at least if he was drinking here and not somewhere else, I could keep an eye on him, you know? And then Caroline and Neil showed up to ask why we'd ditched... But I swear I was only trying to look out for him! I wouldn't let anything happen to him!"

"We understand," Peter stepped in with his soothing voice. "We do, but it wasn't the most sound judgment on your part..." He sighed. "Dean's been on some pretty heavy pain medications for his shoulder. The drugs in his system mixing with alcohol could have poisoned him. You're very lucky he hasn't got alcohol poisoning."

Of course, there was no guarantee that he _didn't_ have alcohol poisoning – he had yet to emerge from the bathroom, after all.

"Pete, why don't you go check on him?" Jane found herself suggesting as the feeling of unease crept back into her system. "Make sure he's okay?"

Her husband nodded and followed Angela's instructions down the hallway, turning at a door at the end of the hall and descending a set of stairs to the 'Rumpus Room' where Dean had apparently disappeared to. Once he was out of earshot the two remaining women eyed each other skeptically.

"I'm disappointed in you, Angela," Jane admonished. "I thought you had sounder judgment than you've shown tonight."

The poor girl looked positively heartbroken, but Jane was a worried parent and someone needed to say what needed saying. Jane had no illusions that Angela's parents would be taking any kind of interest in their daughter's welfare and so took it upon herself to lay down the law: for Angela's sake and for Dean's.

"At the very least, I would have thought you'd have seen fit to call me. Let me know where Dean was so I wouldn't worry. After everything we've been through together this summer, I thought that you would know that you could trust us. And you _should_ have called us."

Her own voice wavered as she remembered her panic of only moments ago when Dean still wasn't home and the Platts were essentially unreachable via telephone.

"I tried calling and the line was busy," Jane went on. "And you can only imagine how worried I was when I couldn't get through and Dean was hours late and essentially _missing_."

"Busy?" Angela squeaked brokenly as she cast nervous eyes about the room before zeroing in on the nearest telephone. She bounded toward the object in question on long legs and saw immediately that the receiver had fallen off the hook. From the horrified expression on her face, Jane would have thought the girl had just discovered an incriminating pool of blood or a dead body.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Wesley!" Angela cried suddenly. "I'm really sorry! I wasn't thinking... I thought if I could just give him some time to calm down, to get past it, he'd be okay. I didn't mean to screw up! I didn't think he'd drink quite so much, and I didn't know the phone was off the hook! Please don't hate me!"

Jane felt her anger melting away at the poor child's obvious distress. It seemed the young girl feared rejection as much as Dean did – which might explain why the two teens made such great friends, in spite of odd pairing. They were both so used to being abandoned that when they did find something worth holding onto they clung to it for dear life. But the knee-jerk reaction to expect rejection seemed ingrained in both of them.

"Hush, child!" Jane soothed as she crossed the threshold toward the young girl to take her into a quick, tight embrace. "I could never hate you."

"I didn't know what else to do!" the girl said desperately as she peered up at Jane behind those ridiculously thick, coke-bottle glasses with massive, weepy, bug eyes. "He was so upset and I was just trying to look out for him!"

"I know, sweetie, I know!" Jane whispered and stroked a stray lock of hair off the girl's forehead. "From now on, though, I want you to call me if something like this happens. It doesn't matter where you are or what time of day it is. You call me and I'll come. For Dean or for you. Okay?"

Angela sniffed and nodded.

"Come on, slugger," Peter's voice grunted from down the hallway. "Left foot... right foot. There we go. Up the stairs. Atta boy."

They could hear the heavy thumping of twin sets of feet thromping up the stairs as Peter coaxed, nudged, and inevitably manhandled the intoxicated teen up the stairs. When they finally emerged through the door at the end of the hall it was to reveal a dishevelled Peter and a drooping Dean, who was hanging from his foster father's right side with his left arm slung around the man's neck, his legs dangling and trudging uselessly along the carpet as he was dragged towards the front door.

"Delivery for Jane Wesley," Peter teased, "One drunken teen who is no longer half naked."

Jane quirked a questioning eyebrow. "Do I want to know?"

Angela shook her head no rigorously.

"Hey Jane," Dean slurred with a half-lidded, pathetic grin. "I uh... fucked up 'gain, huh?"

"We'll talk about it when we get home," she soothed. "For now let's just get you in the car."

"Msorry," he mumbled. "Fer-_hic_-got 'bout the meds. Got reeeeeealllly hammered."

"I can see that." Jane's tone was dry but there was an unwanted grin quirking at the corner of her mouth.

"Don't be mad at Ange," he went on in spite of the fact that he could barely keep his eyes open. "S'not her fault that I'm a fuck-up. She's... She'stha bess'... bess' _ever_."

_God bless her heart_, Jane thought as the girl in question blushed purple like a beet root. That boy had no idea what he did to his best friend when he turned the charm on her.

"She's pretty special," Jane agreed, and Angela lowered her head to save herself from further blushing embarrassment. Compliments likely didn't come her way often and when they did it was obvious she didn't know what to do with them.

"Come on, Champ," Peter urged as he led Dean towards the door. "Sammy and Suzie are waiting for you in the van."

"Sammy?" Dean slurred, smiling dreamily. "N' Suzie? Wai'n fer me?"

"That's right. Time to go see them."

"Mmmmm..." Dean's eyelids drooped and his head tilted towards his chest, only to snap upright, eyes wide and startled.

"Gotta go take a shower," he said.

"You've already had a shower, Dean, remember?" Angela replied.

He shook his head no.

"Need 'nother one. M' disgusting."

The muscles in Jane's stomach clenched and she shared a fleeting, weary glance with her husband. If Dean was overwhelmed by the urge to bathe, his mind undoubtedly had taken him to a very dark place. The alcohol couldn't be helping, either, compounding feelings of inadequacy and dirtiness tenfold.

"You can shower when you get home," Jane assured him instead, "though you look pretty clean to me."

It was a lie, of course. He was pale and slick with sweat and probably only minutes away from doing some power vomiting, but for the sake of the boy's sanity, Jane would tell him that he looked like a rose if it meant he'd stop beating up on himself for the things that had been done to him in the past.

"Don' tell Vinnie!" Dean whispered in a panic and twisting against Peter's side to fist his injured right hand into his foster father's shirt. "Please don't tell 'im what I did!"

"Don't worry, we won't," Peter promised before casting a questioning look her way. Neither Wesley had a clue what they weren't supposed to be telling the brute Vincent.

"Oh God, he's gonn kill'me," Dean moaned. "He's gonna fuckin' _kill_ me."

"Shh-shhh, now," Jane soothed, taking up the space at his injured right side and laying her arm around his shoulders to rub soothing circles on his back. "You're safe with us, remember?"

Dean blinked at her in confusion.

"You're safe with us now, in Phoenix. We went to Long Beach with Angela and Adam, remember?"

She hoped that reminding him of the family vacation they'd taken together would pull him back, away from his nightmares of the past, drawing him instead toward fond remembrances of sun and laughter and love.

"Angela?" Dean whispered. "Googly Angela?"

Jane grimaced at the pet name, hoping to God the girl didn't find it offensive.

"That's right, Angela," she said instead. "Angela your friend. We're at her house now, remember?"

"My Ange," he said, and grinned in that smile that spanned his whole face, relaxing instantly to drop his head on Jane's shoulder. "I 'member now. We're gonna open accounts at the Bat Bank."

Jane would have asked him to elaborate on that one, but he promptly passed out.

888

The hangover wasn't as bad as the 4th of July debacle, but it still sucked beyond description. Dean vowed that Neil and Caroline were both due a supreme ass kicking for the food dare contest – because seriously? – though it might have gone smooth as molasses down his drunken throat, when it came back up it was seriously fucking gross. And it came back to haunt him again and again and again.

By the time he dragged his trembling carcass to the breakfast table it was 7:20 am and he was feeling like he'd been run over, poisoned, and had several dead animals take up residence in his mouth. He choked down a piece of dry toast in silence and nursed a cup of black coffee as though it were laced with heroin. He pointedly ignored the snickering laughter of his baby brother and tried very hard to avoid making eye contact with either Peter or Jane.

But a confrontation of some kind was inevitable.

"You think you'll be able to make it to school today?" Peter asked him archly after folding his morning paper and clearing his throat dramatically.

Dean shrugged.

"Not like I got much choice."

And that was the end of that discussion. Dean wasn't going to pansy out and stay home, even though he felt like shit and would rather gouge out his own eyes than go back to school. That fucking pervert Walter was there, and oh God, Angela was going to want to talk about feelings and hold hands and _JesusfuckingChrist_ he'd been crying like a damned girl when he wasn't even drunk! How the hell was he supposed to face her? There was no end to his shame where that damned school was concerned, and the very idea of stepping foot inside that building again was almost enough to turn his stomach for the nth time that morning.

"When you get home we're going to have a talk about what happened last night, young man," Peter intoned before taking a loud sip from his mug of coffee.

"Goody," Dean drawled dryly. "I can't wait."

"And don't even think about going anywhere but straight home after school," his foster father warned. "It goes without saying that you're grounded."

"I expected as much," Dean admitted with a shrug that pulled at his aching shoulder.

"You'll be lucky if you haven't earned yourself detention every day this week," Peter went on. "Skipping school on the first day... I honestly can't begin to imagine what got into you yesterday."

The words, especially _those_ words, fell like burning clumps of acid in Dean's stomach. Memories of that sweaty, fat pig's cock pistoning into his throat, or the swollen finger forcing its way into his ass reminding him all too literally of what had _gotten into him_ yesterday. He wanted to rage against those memories, rage against the dread of what was to come when Friday inevitably came, rage against the injustice of being a kid who'd never gotten to be a kid because a few sick perverts couldn't control themselves and had taken it upon themselves to make his life a living hell. He wanted to shout at Peter that he damned well didn't want to know what had _gotten into him yesterday_.

But he was just so tired. He was tired of being used and tired of being scared and ashamed and alone in his stinking meatsuit. He wondered what it would be like to just be a tree: to be inanimate and without thought, to just exist, thrumming with life and part of the whole circle of existence without having to deal with all the crap that went along with being fucking human. Trees didn't get raped by other trees. They didn't grow up too fast. They didn't get humiliated, didn't carry shame, didn't know how to be anything other than trees.

And wow – he was really spending too much time with Angela if likening himself to trees was his new way of looking at the world. Next thing he knew he'd be wearing a beret and sporting a crustache and writing angsty teen poems about the meaning of life. _'To fuck the Headmaster or not to fuck the Headmaster. That is the question...'_

It was cosmically unfair, Dean thought, that his one chance at screwing a teacher didn't involve a hot, young librarian-type with glasses, a messy bun with flyaway hair and a black lacy bra underneath her oh-so-conservative blouse. That would be blackmail worth sinning for. But Walter was just gross and besides, he'd already had a fucking go at it. He wasn't supposed to get seconds.

"Dean?" Peter's voice cut through his thoughts. "Son... you okay?"

Dean cleared his throat and blinked away the dreary cobwebs of self-doubt and anxiety. There was no point in moping over what could never be. It was what it was – that asshole Walter Cunningham had him bent over the proverbial table and he fucking knew it. There wasn't really anything he could do about it but just grit his teeth and take it like a man.

"Yeah," Dean said absently. "Sorry sir. Won't happen again. I mean... like last night."

He could feel the man frowning at him, knew Peter's brow would be furrowed with fatherly concern, so he kept his gaze determinedly cast elsewhere. If he avoided eye contact he could maybe avoid the conversation steering in the direction of 'Tell me about your feelings' – where he knew it would inevitably go if he didn't get up and leave this table right the hell now.

"Gotta get ready for school," Dean mumbled as he dragged himself away from the table as quickly as his hung-over body would allow.

"We'll talk about this later," Peter called after him in a softer, 'I'm-here-for-you' voice.

"Later," Dean agreed sleepily.

If he was lucky, he could just keep pushing later further and further into the distance until later became never. That would be nice.

888

Being hung-over at school Sucked. Out. Loud. The teachers all knew instantly what state he was in – could probably smell it on his skin – and he got detention for lunch hour and after school, got detained after every class for talks about his behaviour, his attendance, his participation, and his attitude. _For fuck's sake_, all he wanted to do was just sit in a corner and listen to the bitches drone on like the teachers in "Charlie Brown," but instead he got concern and judgment and _'If you're not going to take this class seriously I suggest you transfer to public school.'_ Didn't these yuppy assholes know that Dean would give his right fucking arm to go to public school instead of being forced to wear a monkey suit and parade around in this freak show? Going to school with Sam and Angela was great and all (at least in theory), but it wasn't worth Walter any day of the week. And the uniform? Day two and he was ready to burn himself in effigy just for the sake of watching the clothes smoulder. It would make one hell of a statement.

And to top it all off, of course, he got summoned to the Headmaster's Office – again – during English class. Dean felt his lunch curdling in his stomach as the nasal voice over the intercom ordered him to his doom at the hands of smelly-fat-pervert man, but he put on a brave face and aimed for cool indifference as he made his way out of the classroom, knowing that Angela's eyes were burning a hole through the back of his head with her magnifying glass/glasses.

As he walked on lead feet towards the main office, he wondered idly why he was allowing this whole situation with Walter to upset him so much. True, he'd thought he was free of his life as a whore, and true he'd thought he'd escaped being humiliated and violated by pervy men. But there was always a part of him that had held back from hoping: the cynic in him had said it wasn't over, that it would never be over, that he would always end up on his knees for one reason or another. And the fact was, he should have known better. His whole life had been running on a downward trajectory. He was born into a charmed life with a beautiful mother, a doting father, and a cherub-faced baby brother. Then it was all burned away in flame and ash. Then there was just father and baby brother and being scared and alone and being responsible for precious, precious burdens. But he'd coped; he'd dealt with it. He'd made himself a home in his Dad's old Chevy Impala, with Sammy tucked under one arm and Dad looming over him like a big, scary, comforting shadow. And that again was torn away from him when his father was arrested. And everything after that had been one nightmare after another, each worse than the one before it.

His life had been a series of painful events, one after the other, stripping him of everything he had: mother, then father and brother, then safety, then dignity and self-worth. He was _nothing_ now. He knew that, though he tried to pretend otherwise. But deep down he knew that he was worthless. So why should he protest a privileged man like Walter Cunningham wanting to claim something so trivial as Dean's body? Hell, the man had already paid for it.

And after all this time, why was Dean being such a damned baby about being forced to do something he didn't want to? Hadn't that been his existence for the last three and a half years? A summer of reprieve didn't mean he was in the clear: living with the Wesleys didn't change his past, and it didn't change who or what he was.

Still, knowing it didn't make the march to the Headmaster's office feel any less humiliating or terrifying. Because no matter how much he rationalized and reasoned out that he should be toughened up beyond caring at this point, the fact remained that Dean wanted to be free of the shackles of prostitution. He wanted to be a normal fourteen year-old boy worrying about dates and proms and homework. He wanted to be worth more than this.

"Mr. Winchester, have a seat," the man in question said with a forced genial smile as Dean made his way into the office.

Dean could see the smile of triumph behind the fat man's eyes, could see him revelling in the fact that his prized piece of meat had given him legitimate reasons to summon him here for another round of foreplay in preparation for Friday night, as the man's chubby hands eased the door closed and secured the lock to prevent anyone barging in unannounced.

"Not off to the best start here, are we?" Cunningham chuckled excitedly, pausing next to Dean's chair to loom imperiously over him and to leer leisurely. "I must say I was surprised to hear that you'd ditched classes on your very first day... Not exactly the kind of behaviour I was expecting from you after all of Abraham Wesley's assurances of what a fine, upstanding young _gentleman_ you are."

He chuckled at the word gentleman, as though the words 'Dean' and 'gentility' were hilarious when used together in the same sentence.

"Yeah, well," Dean snarked, "I had to go shower and puke after our close encounter yesterday. Didn't much feel like sticking around."

The man's face darkened at the insult and Dean couldn't help but feel intensely satisfied. _Score one point for Dean!_ Served the fucker right. But then a pudgy hand was reaching toward his face to brush along the hair on his forehead and he found himself flinching away.

"Do we have to go through the song and dance every time you come in here?" the Headmaster asked in exasperation. "It's tiresome, Dean, and I don't have all day."

"Right." Dean bit his lip in thought and then made a move to stand. "I'll just be on my way then... let you get back to it..."

But the hand on his chest stopped his upward movement as he plunked unceremoniously back into his seat.

"Not so hasty, if you please," Cunningham intoned in a kind of sing-song voice. "Since you're here, we might as well take advantage of our time together."

And just like that Dean's hands were shaking. It was stupid, really. He'd been in this position more times than he could count, had sucked more cocks than a porn star, and here he was trembling like some virgin on prom night. But he couldn't help it. Something had changed – something inside him had snapped, his protective walls had crumbled, and now he felt as defenceless and vulnerable as he had at age 11 when he'd been violated for the first time.

With a sickening sense of dread burning a hole through his stomach, Dean realized that this wasn't just his heterosexual knee-jerk squick-factor making him not want to do this. This was something deeper; something primal and visceral. Dean couldn't do this. The very idea of letting Walter fuck him again filled him with such terror that he thought he might actually fucking cry.

And behind it all was Vinnie.

"I can't!" Dean choked out the whisper. "Oh God! _I can't!_"

"Shhhhhh...." Walter cooed, his meaty thumb trailing past Dean's temple to trace the length of his cheekbone. "It'll be fine. It's nowhere you haven't already been, right?"

"You don't understand," Dean gasped as panic washed over him. "I-I _can't_."

"Yes you can," the man purred, then more forcefully. "And you _will_."

Dean closed his eyes and sucked his top lip into his teeth, taking a deep breath to steady himself. He could feel Vinnie's breath on his neck, could hear the echoes of his taunting voice as he punished Dean for 'making him crazy.' Every moment he spent in the Headmaster's office felt like a moment of transgression, of sin against Vinnie, and it left Dean feeling so terrified that he thought he might actually piss himself.

It was irrational, of course, because Vinnie wasn't there – was probably in a stoned stupor in his apartment in New York as they spoke – but the overwhelming sensation that he was being watched at that very moment, and that there would be dire consequences if Dean were to give in to Walter's demands, was so strong that he felt like ducking for cover or arming himself with a weapon.

He was going to have to beg.

"Please," Dean whispered, eyes still closed. "You don't understand... I... I'm not – I can't..."

"It's all right," Walter soothed. "We don't have to do this now. Just relax. We have time yet before Friday. I just thought we could get reacquainted in the meantime. Have a little teaser...?"

But Dean was shaking his head no.

"I can't do it." He opened his eyes and peered upward, pleading for reprieve. "I was... When you were..."

He paused and took a deep, shuddering breath. He was about to speak about that day – something he hadn't done with anyone – and the very act of opening his mouth to form words felt draining.

"Before," Dean tried, licking his lips nervously and averting his eyes. "When you saw me... like, bruised and stuff? And you asked if Vin had done it...?" He chuckled mirthlessly and squirmed in his seat. It was a long shot, and it sounded retarded now that he was saying it out loud, but it was Dean's last hope. "You seemed kinda like you actually cared that the guy was hurting me."

"I do care," the man replied wistfully, the hand returning to his hair to stroke gently through the short, blonde spikes.

Dean gulped.

"Well he did... hurt me. After you left."

His cheeks burned with shame at the memory of begging and sobbing while he was mercilessly plundered by that cold, hard baton. He could feel his eyes spilling over with tears, his unfocussed vision blurring through the wetness, his chin and lip quivering.

"He..." Cheeks already drenched and face contorted with anguish, Dean couldn't suppress the sob that clawed its way out of his throat. "He was so mad at me for what I did... with you – even though he made me do it in the first place!"

Dean sniffed and focused his gaze on his hands, which were fisted in his lap.

"I know I'm just a whore, and that I ain't worth much," he shrugged and watched his jeans darken with tiny splotches of wetness as tears rained down from his cheeks. "But it don't mean I don't hurt when I get roughed around. And Vinnie, he—he h-hurt me so bad."

He hated himself for crying like this, in front of fucking Walter no less, but all the memories and emotions Dean had been suppressing for months were vying for attention now, forcing their way to the forefront and inundating his mind with images and deep pangs of remembered agony.

"He tied me up," Dean choked out, clenching his teeth through the pain. "Hit me so hard I thought my head was gonna explode. And then…" He trailed off and sniffed loudly.

"You privileged guys – you only see what you wanna see," Dean whispered. "You come in all slick with your fancy suit and your money and you take what you want – buy what you want. But when you walk out the door you got no idea what kind of shit storm you left behind. You just… you just don't fuckin' _know!_"

"Sh-shh, take it easy," Walter pleaded soothingly, landing a reassuring mitt on Dean's shoulder. "Everything's okay, Dean. That brute is gone. He's not here anymore."

Dean laughed a mirthless laugh and drew his gaze away from his lap to meet the eyes of the man still looming over him.

"I'm not tellin' you this to share my feelings with you, you stupid dick!" Dean growled. "I'm tellin' you so you'll know why I can't… I can't do what you want me to."

A deep, shuddering breath to steady himself.

"When I say he hurt me, I don't just mean that he kicked the shit outta me." Dean made sure that he had Walter's absolute attention, their eyes locked, before continuing.

"He fuckin' wrecked me, man. Like… _back there_. Okay? I couldn't… I couldn't hardly sit or move 'cos it hurt so bad, and the tearin' didn't heal right so there was infection."

And in spite of himself he could feel himself blushing, embarrassed to be acknowledging the torn, filthy, diseased state of his own body, of his abused ass. Everything about _that night_, including the subsequent seepage and infection, was humiliating, mortifying, serving to remind Dean that he was a dirty sack of skin and bone and muscle to be used and abused according to other men's pleasure.

"I'm not… I'm not _right_," Dean whispered. "And that's why I can't… with you. Forget that I don't freakin' want to – I just… I just _can't_."

He could feel himself trembling, shaking with fear, either remembered, imagined, or real and present. He _had_ to make Walter understand that he couldn't do this, that no matter how much he tried to suck it up and just be a man about it, no matter how brave or detached he wanted to be, he just couldn't.

"Calm down," the Headmaster commanded, albeit gently. "Look at me Dean – you need to calm down."

Their eyes were locked: Dean's pleading, Walter's reading, probing. A silent discussion passed between them, though it remained to be seen whether or not they were both speaking the same language.

"Okay," the man said at length. "Just take it easy, Dean. I'm not going to hurt you. And Vincent is not going to hurt you. Not ever again. Okay?"

"You don't know that!" Dean blurted out. "Maybe he was on that gentlemen's chat or whatever and saw your posting about Sam and figured out I'm here, huh? Maybe he's just watching and waiting so he can—"

"You're being irrational," Cunningham admonished. "You're allowing your fears to invent problems where none exist."

Dean could have scoffed at that, considering being blackmailed into having sex with the Headmaster of his school ranked pretty high up on the list of _big fucking deal_ problems as far as he was concerned, but the tingling up his spine and the feeling of foreboding sending off flashing, neon alarms in his brain told him that this pressing fear was a lot more than paranoia. Dad would have called it instinct.

The hairs on his arms and on the back of his neck stood on end and Dean suddenly knew that his fears were borne of something else entirely. He wasn't being paranoid. He was being hunted.

* * *

_Coming up...._

Dean tells Angela something to fulfill his promise, and Walter learns some shocking truths.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter Notes:**

Things are moving... moving, moving, moving. It's hitting the fan ladies (and gents?). And by popular demand...

* * *

Chapter 21

The stupid asshole didn't believe him, but that was hardly new. In his experience, when shit was hitting the fan no one tended to believe him. It was like he had the word LIAR permanently etched on his soul, in blinking neon lights. And to be honest, he sometimes did lie. Often did lie. Okay, he lied all the time. But he was capable of telling the truth too. He only lied when it was important, when he needed to protect himself or someone else. So it wasn't so wrong to lie then, right?

This whole new life in the suburbs thing felt like a lie. But he wasn't lying now. Someone was watching him – them.

Regardless, Walter chalked Dean's apprehensions up to some kind of stalling tactic, or "jitters" as he called them. While Dean was busy scanning the view from Walter's window, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever presence had his instincts screaming a warning inside his head, Walter was passing on all kinds of valuable wisdom about being young and 'full of imagination.' If the guy weren't blackmailing him with threats of hurting Sam, Dean would have so kicked his ass already.

"Just wait until Friday," the man had said soothingly. "I'll let you see how good it can be. I know you're anxious now, but you'll enjoy it. I promise you'll enjoy it – even more than you did last time."

With the threat of danger feeling suddenly so close and present, Dean felt his protective walls slamming back into place, his confidence returning, if only to work in conjunction with his instincts, his fight or flight response. The time for tears and begging was long past. Walter wasn't fucking listening anyway.

"I'm only gonna say this once," Dean said darkly, casting a quick, disdainful look at the Headmaster before returning his gaze to the world outside. "I'm not gonna like anything you got to offer, and I sure as fuck didn't like it the last time. I don't swing that way."

The fat man made a blustery, flustered sound in his throat and Dean knew if he'd actually been watching he'd have seen the man gaping like a fish out of water.

"But... you said..." the man stammered.

"Tellin' you what you wanted to hear," Dean said in exasperation. "What, you think I coulda made the kind of money you were shovellin' out if I just laid there like a dead fish and cried or somethin'?"

He scoffed and smirked, turning away from the window at last to face the now red-faced Headmaster.

"No sir, you paid for the gold membership Dean Winchester experience: complete with moaning and groaning and whatever other dirty fuckin' shit you wanted to hear, man."

Walter's face went from red to an alarming shade of purple, and Dean could have sworn the man was headed straight for a heart attack. He watched in detached amusement, feeling a sick sense of satisfaction that the porky old bastard might be ready to keel over and fucking die – 'cos that would be both hilarious and awesomely convenient. And would totally serve the fucker right.

"You're lying," the man choked out, the colour slowly receding from his quivering cheeks to return to a more healthy, non-stroke-inducing shade of red, then inevitably settling on flushed pink.

Dean pursed his lips in thought and pretended to think back on that day.

"I told you I wanted it, huh?" Dean queried.

Walter nodded.

Dean pinched his bottom lip between his thumb and index finger and mulled it over, lowering his voice.

"And I said it felt _so good_, yeah?" stepping closer into Walter's personal space, looking up slowly from beneath his lashes, teasing. "Told you I liked _the feel of your cock_, yeah?"

The greedy, fat man gulped as sweat beaded along his brow and ran in rivulets down his cheeks. Again he nodded, that same eagerness that Dean had sensed back in Vinnie's apartment evident in the way his eyes devoured Dean's face, his lips darting out to wet his parched mouth.

"_Don't ever stop_," Dean whispered. "Did I say that?"

He had him right where he wanted him. Walter nodded again and attempted to reach out with a trembling hand but paused, waiting to see what Dean would say or do next.

"_You feel so good inside_," Dean breathed against the man's chin. "_Oh God, don't ever stop. Fuck... feel so good_."

Walter was positively panting, though his eyes warred between lust and aggravation, wanting to relive that moment, yet suspicious of Dean for the unsolicited re-enactment.

Dean smirked, drawing his face away to look at the man before him with eyes as blank, cold and empty as steel.

"Yeah, _fake_," Dean drawled as he stepped deftly out of the Headmaster's personal space and beyond reach. "But it had you goin', didn't it?"

He sauntered back to the window and peered outside once again, though deep down he knew that whoever was watching him was likely long gone or was very well hidden. He mustered up his cockiest smile, could feel the skin of his cheeks stretching into dimples as he grinned wickedly at the headmaster.

"That's what you would call the work of a professional," Dean boasted.

And why not? Walter was forever using Dean's past as a whore against him, throwing in his face that there was no coming back from where Dean had been, that he would never be like other kids his age, that he was different because of the things he'd done. And Dean guessed it was true. So two could play at that game. If Headmaster Cunningham was only going to see Dean as a prostitute, then Dean was going to remind him, in the most blatant and insulting way possible, that everything they had experienced together in the past or would experience together in the future was an act, a lie, a fucking ruse.

"You're foolin' yourself if you think I want this – any fuckin' part of this," Dean insisted. "It ain't gonna be good. And I'm sure as hell not gonna like it."

"We'll see," Walter hedged slyly. Dean thought maybe the man was still deluding himself into thinking that he could win him over somehow, that Dean would melt into his embrace and suddenly decide that the bloated, middle-aged guy was the hottest thing ever and that being fucked by him was like dying and going to heaven.

"Oh, and blackmail?" Dean went on. "Definitely not the gold membership Dean Winchester experience. Blackmail earns you a dead fish, possibly with a few tears sprinkled on top. If I'm feelin' bad enough, I might even fuckin' _cry_."

And who was Dean kidding? He probably would cry. Hell, he'd just been crying like a baby begging for this thing _not_ to happen. Come Friday, and providing whoever was watching or hunting him hadn't already taken him out, Dean would probably be blubbering like a little girl with a skinned knee. He knew someone was watching him, and when he thought about it, it felt like he'd been open and exposed for four months – four months during which time Vinnie could have found him, could have been watching and stalking and fuming at him for having dared to leave him, to escape, to play at being normal. So Dean knew he had to be smart. He had to keep his attention focussed on that watchful presence, on the cold dread curling up his spine, on the feeling of danger warning him to watch his back, to keep his eyes wide open, to have eyes in the back of his head. This shit with Walter would have to be an afterthought, a footnote.

"So let's lay down a few ground rules," Dean went on, all business. "This is a one-time deal –" and when he saw the man make ready to protest he raised a hand to silence him. "You're not hangin' this shit over my head forever, pal. We do this once and then it's done."

"I hardly think you're in any position to dictate to me..." Walter flustered.

"One time," Dean warned, his index finger held aloft sharply to count off the number one. "That's it. No comin' back for seconds or thirds. We do this once and then we're done. You come after Sam or send anyone else after Sam or Suzie...? You'll be dead before you hit the fuckin' ground, you hear me?"

Funny how threatening people could be such a rush, especially when the person you were threatening actually looked alarmed or scared. It had never worked on Vinnie – either because Vinnie was a fucking brick wall and such threats were laughable, or because he'd always been so afraid of the man that he'd sounded like a squeaky-voiced kid ready to shit his pants with fear, he couldn't say – but Walter seemed visibly taken aback. It made Dean feel strong and confident, like his voice was actually menacing or something.

"This isn't going to be some kind of love affair," Dean warned. "We do it once and that's it. You get what you need out of this and get it outta your fuckin' system, 'cos you're only gettin' the one shot. So make it count."

"And if it's not enough?" the Headmaster queried tightly.

Dean grinned. "Then you'll have to find someone else."

888

His knuckles were white from clutching the steering wheel, his breaths coming in harsh, ragged gasps. His vision tunnelled, turning red at the fringes, as he stared down the well-manicured lawns of the suburban street and tried to will himself back to some semblance of calm. Rage roiled through his body in sickening waves, taking his breath away and making him gasp. He had to lower his head to the steering wheel and just breathe through the pain, the betrayal, the fucking gall forcing bile up his throat.

He'd touched him. That fucking waste of skin Headmaster had touched his golden-skinned treasure, had dared to lay bloated digits against that sun-kissed brow, had dared to draw tears from those mossy green eyes.

His nostrils flared as he recalled the sight of that beautiful child sitting in that chair, the portly old pervert looming over him, leaning into his personal space, invading past boundaries he had no bussing passing, to touch what was not his to touch. Dennis had held his binoculars in a crushing grip, his teeth grinding noisily through each other with jaw-crushing force as he watched the power-play between student and teacher, prostitute and potential John. He'd watched, wondering what the fat man was blackmailing Dean with that the boy had allowed him into his personal space, that he'd broken down sobbing and pleading. And though Dennis couldn't hear the words, the anguish on that beautiful boy's face was clear enough.

Then Dean had looked at him. For a moment Dennis's heart had lodged in his throat when the boy suddenly stood at attention, muscles rigid and locked, senses on alert, as he flew to the window to scan the nearby trees and cars. Dean's eyes had flashed madly from left to right, settling at last on the bushes where Dennis was hiding, and in that moment Dennis thought for sure that Dean could see right into his soul. _He'd been caught._

But then the boy's eyes darted left again, frantic and worried, narrowed and darting, like a raptor's gaze, piercing through the distance between them but failing to see through to what lay beneath.

Dennis had breathed a sigh of relief when he realized that he hadn't been discovered, though he knew in that moment that the time to act was upon him. Dean was finally alerted to his presence and Dennis didn't want to risk the boy figuring out who he was. One casually spoken word to Peter about what room they'd been staying in that fateful weekend in New York, or about the abundance of luggage in Dennis's room, and his co-worker would figure it out. And with Dean sensing the danger at last, a slip like that was inevitable. Soon enough someone was likely to connect the dots. It was almost amazing that they hadn't done so already.

Dennis knew that he had to act now or he would miss his chance. And there was no way that he was going to let this sordid business with the Headmaster of Albright Academy to continue any further. Whatever was going on between Dean and his teacher ended now.

He was going to crush them both.

888

Jane Wesley was ashamed. Deeply ashamed. True, Dean Winchester was a clever kid, and he'd spent years practicing and honing the ability to tell people what they wanted to hear and make them believe it. It was a skill with him. He was gifted at it. Still, she blamed herself for having fallen victim to it because she knew better. She knew better than to fall for his tricks, knew better than to let him reassure her with his '_I'm fines'_ and '_chill outs_' and '_Jesus you worry too muches._'

His explanation for what had happened, for what had prompted his mid-day meltdown the day before, had sounded so damned reasonable that she'd fallen for it hook, line, and sinker. He'd been all dewy-eyed and sheepish, flushed embarrassment in his confession when she pressed him for an answer, for an explanation, insisting he wouldn't be going to school until he told her what had set him off.

"A janitor," he'd said shyly. "He... God, he looked so much like Vin that I kind of... flipped, I guess? Had a... a flashback."

And it made so much sense that she bought it. Seeing someone who reminded him so badly of his abuser could bring on a painful flashback. After all, Dean had been brutalized by the man, had been under his thumb for the better part of a year. There were likely dozens of deeply painful memories from his time with that monster, memories that would cripple him when they resurfaced in living colour like that.

So she'd believed him, had hugged him and held him tight and whispered into his hair that he was safe and that she and Peter would never let anything happen to him, and made him promise that if he ever felt threatened like that again he would come to her so she could help. And he'd nodded meekly and vowed that he would, and she'd held back her tears until he was long gone for school, Sammy in tow, and cried for his lost innocence and the part she'd played in it by refusing to take him into her family when they'd taken Sam. She'd missed out on years of having that bright, beautiful, loving soul in her household all because she'd been intimidated by his tough, prickly exterior. She'd been fooled by it then.

And she'd allowed him to fool her with his 'honest' confession now.

She shook her head in wonder and gripped the steering wheel tight as she waited for the school bell to sound, releasing her children back to her so she could take them home safe and sound. It had only taken her about an hour of contemplation to realize that Dean had lied to her – had looked in her eyes and darned well lied right to her face about what had set him off the day before. It wasn't that she doubted that seeing someone who looked like Vinnie would have set him off. It was that the facts didn't add up that gave her pause, made her doubt his ready answer.

'_Don't tell Vinnie what I did,'_ he'd slurred all drunk and panicked the night before. _'He's gonna kill me!'_

_That_ was the hole in the story, the chink in the armour, the flaw in the carefully woven tapestry of lies, that made Jane realize that she'd been played. Dean had done something that he thought would bring about his ex-tormentor's wrath. Something had happened to make Dean ashamed and frightened of Vincent's angry retribution, and while she couldn't for the life of her fathom what it was, she knew that it had to be big for Dean to be so upset about it that he cried, _while sober_, in front of Angela. So she was waiting in front of the school in the minivan, ready to intercept him on his way home, so that she could get to the bottom of this problem and do her best to solve it. He was a tough nut to crack, but she was bound and determined that she would do it. Dean Winchester was not going to face all his trials and tribulations alone – not now that he had a family that loved him.

The bell rang at long last and Jane found herself holding her breath in anticipation.

"Mommy, is Dean grounded again?" Suzie asked from the backseat. Jane had picked her up earlier as grades 1-3 were dismissed at 3:00.

"Yes, sweetie, he is," Jane replied absently as her eyes scanned the crowd of kids as they trickled and then gushed out the front doors of the prestigious school.

"How come?" Suzie queried, swinging her legs with boredom.

"Because he broke the rules," Jane said.

"Cos he got drunk, right?" Suzie giggled. "Drunk like a skunk?"

"Something like that." Jane spotted Sam and gave a quick honk with the horn. His young face dimpled with a smile as he picked up the pace to rush toward the van, Adam Platt following a few paces behind him, his steps timid as always.

"Hey Mom!" Sam greeted brightly. "Can Adam come over after school to play in the club house?"

"If it's okay with Adam's Mom," Jane replied with a kindly smile before returning her gaze to the crowd. That amounted to a 'yes' in Sam's eyes, given that Mrs. Platt was rarely home and never showed an interest in the boy's whereabouts.

"Kay!" Sam grinned. "Hey Ad – you can come over!"

The dark-haired boy grinned shyly and muttered something about waiting to tell Angela.

It was reassuring, at least, that young Adam Platt had an older sister like Angela who was always looking out for him. From what Jane could tell, Angela worshipped her little brother and took excellent care of him in her parents' stead. A hired hand named Florinda took care of most of the parental duties of the household and Angela did the rest. Again, it was another similarity that the gangly girl had with Dean: they both lived for their younger siblings.

As if on cue, the dynamic duo came bursting forth through the front door, expressions stern and heated, deep in conversation in what looked like the beginnings of an argument. Dean was storming ahead of Angela, his handsome face set in a tired scowl, while Angela trotted at his heels, hissing urgent warnings of some kind at the back of his head, which Dean brushed off in his usual way by shrugging and scoffing. Then Dean's eyes alighted on the van, taking in the sight of Jane behind the wheel squinting in the sunlight, Sam and Adam hovering near the passenger door. He visibly gathered himself, taking a deep breath, and marched in their direction.

When he was close enough he rounded to the driver's side and waited for Jane to roll down the window.

"Hey," he breathed hesitantly, licking his bottom lip nervously before asking the question she could see hovering on his lips. "Um... Is it okay if I walk home? It's just Ange and I. – " he paused to shoot his friend an angry scowl. "We gotta talk about some stuff, I guess."

The look of long suffering he wore was almost cute, and Jane had to wonder what kind of threats Angela Platt had thrown out to get Dean to 'talk' about anything. Whatever it was, Jane wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Dean talking to Angela meant he was at least confiding in someone. And after the discussion she'd had with the girl last night, she felt she could trust Angela to pass along to her and Peter anything that they, as Dean's guardians, needed to know about.

"Sure," she replied. "But come straight home."

Dean grinned weakly, though it looked more like a grimace, and spun around to face Angela.

"All right, Metal-Mouth," he grumped. "Let's get this over with."

888

"We need to talk," Angela whispered in his ear, nearly causing him to jump out of his skin.

"Jesus!" he exclaimed exaggeratedly. "Give a guy a freakin' heart attack!"

"We need to talk," she repeated.

Dean ignored her and continued his steady pace down the hall, his bookbag slung over his left shoulder and looking remarkably devoid of books. She wondered if he'd even bothered to bring any with him, and thought how hard it would be for him to get any homework done without his books. Maybe he didn't care anymore.

"Dean!" she hissed as he continued to plough on ahead through the crowd.

"What?" he finally barked as he stopped abruptly and heaved a heavy sigh, casting his eyes heavenward as if praying for patience.

"I said we need to talk!" she whispered urgently.

"About what?" he asked blankly and if he weren't injured already Angela would have punched him.

She narrowed her eyes and tilted her head to the side to glare at him in warning.

"Oh no you don't!" she intoned, and just like that he was on the move again, his long legs eating up the corridor like a prize horse on a racetrack.

Dean wove his way through the student traffic gracefully, never nudging or touching anyone, gliding through like a spirit, an apparition, a wraith-like person who existed beyond the boundaries of the real world.

"Don't what?" he asked innocently and she practically had to jog to keep up.

"Pretend like nothing happened yesterday!" Angela retorted.

"Something happened yesterday?"

She growled in frustration and snatched his free left hand, yanking him to a halt.

"You promised!" she reminded him in a low voice. "You promised me you would tell me what happened!"

Dean shrugged.

"Yeah, about that?" he scratched absently at his head and grimace-smiled. "I lied."

A beat and they were on the move ahead, zig-zagging through throngs of teens until they broke free through the front doors and burst out into the bright sunlight of the world beyond.

"Fine, then. I'm going to the Headmaster," Angela threatened.

Dean turned then to level a death glare at her.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he demanded. "You promised you wouldn't!"

It was Angela's turn to shrug. "I lied," she said tartly.

Dean growled and continued marching.

"Fine," he muttered darkly, his eyes alighting on Mrs. Wesley parked out front in the van. Adam and Sam, she noticed, were waiting there as well, apparently for her and Dean to join them.

Angela watched as Dean approached Jane's window and explained that they would be walking home. As he did so, Adam informed her that he was going to Sam's to play in the club house and that he would be home in time for supper. It was times like this when Angela really regretted having a friend who was a trouble-maker: Dean being grounded was awfully lonely and boring. And of course Neil and Caroline were left to their own devices, at her request, so that she could get some answers from Dean.

"All right, Metal-Mouth," Dean grumped. "Let's get this over with."

When the van pulled away they found themselves sharing a very painful, very awkward silence. Dean chewed on his bottom lip for a while as he contemplated where to go, maybe, or what to tell her. She could almost picture him fabricating the lie he was about to spin for her.

"How about we head over there," Angela suggested, pointing toward the small copse of trees that had been Dean's refuge the day previous.

Dean's shoulders slumped and he squinted in the sunlight, his head hung low as he peered off into the distance in the bright afternoon light.

"Too much chance of someone listenin' in," Dean replied with a shrug. "How 'bout we head on over to the playground and just cut through and... I don't know, wander?"

Angela nodded and silently fell in step with her friend as he walked resolutely in the direction of the park across the street. It was strained and silent, the odd rock crunching underneath their school shoes as they plugged ahead, two weary souls in four polished soles as they plodded ever onward, lost in their own thoughts and neither one voicing them. Angela bit her lip and contemplated the many and varied ways she could begin this conversation, but hoped that Dean would just crack and spill his guts or something, because she really had no idea how to draw him out of his shell.

So they walked in silence with no regard to which way they were going, each listening to the other breathing through the turmoil as the concrete of the sidewalk gave way to gravel, and gravel gave way to grass. The steady swish-swish of soft green blades against the shiny black leather of their shoes reminded Angela of the sound of corduroyed legs rubbing together. And still Dean remained silent.

Maybe it was like tearing off a band-aid, Angela pondered. Sucking in a deep breath, she ploughed ahead.

"Did somebody..." she wanted to choke on her own tongue once the words had left her lips and there was no going back because she'd formed the thought and begun to vocalize it and it _had_ to come out now. "Did somebody... _do_ something to you? Like... _touch _you?"

Dean froze and Angela staggered to a halt, nearly crashing into him, as he turned on her with a sharp, angry, terrified glare.

"What?" His voice was a ghost in his throat. "What-wh-why would you even think that?"

_Oh God_, that haunted, petrified deer-in-headlights look in his eyes was all the confirmation she needed. She gulped and nearly choked on her breath, her mouth suddenly drier than the Sahara, and dug her nails into her palms to steady herself.

"I connected the dots," Angela confessed. It was highly likely that she was going to throw up from anxiety.

"_That's_ what your brilliant brain came up with?" Dean scoffed hollowly. "That I was... that somebody..." He shook his head in denial and squinted in the sun again in what looked like a smile, a pained, sad smile.

"You're wrong," he denied to the wild blue sky.

Angela scuffed at the dirt in a barren patch of grass with her shoe.

"Then what?" she asked, breathless. "What happened?"

But she knew. Deep down she knew that she'd gotten it right. It wasn't a conclusion she'd wanted to leap to, but there were clues, breadcrumbs he'd left behind.

Dean shook his head and continued staring into the distance with that pained, squinty smile, his teeth bared in a joyless grin before he licked his lips nervously.

"Ange..." His voice was pained, pleading. "Can't you just... Can't you just let this go?"

"Was it Headmaster Cunningham?" Angela barrelled ahead. "Has he been calling you to his office to... do things to you?"

Her knees went weak when he gaped at her like a bloodless zombie, the colour drained from his face and leaving him white like a freshly cold corpse. His lips parted, his eyes wide and bottle green pleading with her to unask the question.

"Oh my God, _he did!_" Angela whispered in disgust. "_He fucking did!_"

Dean looked positively stricken. She could see a world of hurt bleeding behind his eyes, a million regrets and deep, endless shame and denial, his lip quivering just a fraction as he fought to rein it all in, to mask her from it. But she knew. She'd connected the fucking dots and she knew. And she was going to murder that lecherous old fuckwad!

"I'll kill him!" she growled venomously. "That sick bastard!"

"Shhhh!" Dean hissed as he grabbed her by one shoulder and gripped her tight. "Just... God, shut up! I didn't... He didn't.... Fuck, Ange, why the hell would you ever think _that_, huh?"

"Because I'm not an idiot, Dean!" Angela shot back, too angry to be gentle. "For Christ sake, you were showering yesterday like a goddamned rape victim! It's hard not to come to conclusions like that when you won't stop going on about how disgusting you are."

Dean couldn't deny that and merely stared at her with blazing, wild, terrified eyes. He looked like a trapped animal, his eyes jack-rabbitty again and desperate, and the hand at her shoulder trembled even as it squeezed the circulation out of her arm.

"You got it wrong, okay?" he said forcefully. "Just... just fucking let it go, Ange. You got it all wrong."

"So he didn't call you into his office today to lay his fat pervy hands on you?" she accused.

"No, he didn't!" he denied blatantly. He was looking right into her eyes with all the sincerity he could muster and she knew without doubt that he was lying.

"Jesus Christ, Dean! Why would you let him do that to you?" she demanded in a strangled whisper. "And why in God's name are you protecting him?"

She regretted the words the moment they'd left her lips, especially when she saw his panicked eyes darken even as his brows drew together to a murderous glare.

"Let him?" he asked tightly. "_Let him?_ I didn't fucking _let_ him do anything!"

"Dean...," she struggled. "God, I'm sorry – I didn't mean it like that, it's just –"

"You got no right!" he growled suddenly. "No fuckin' right! You don't have a sweet godamned clue and have no fuckin' business telling me I _let_ him do anything! _I had no choice!_" he spit out through gritted teeth, stabbing at his chest with an index finger to accentuate each word.

"No choice?" Angela repeated, baffled. "What the hell does that mean, Dean? Was he... was he blackmailing you or something?"

"YES!" Dean shouted. His chest heaved and his face burned crimson with indignant anger. He looked about ready to bolt, or maybe slap her – she wasn't sure – but the fear and anger and frustration were radiating off his body like rippling waves of heat.

"Fuck, Angela!" he growled dejectedly, pain and defeat evident in his voice. "Why'd you gotta be so smart, huh? Why couldn't you have left it the fuck alone?"

She was too shocked to respond, too stunned to form the very self-evident answer, she thought, that was niggling from the back of her brain to the tip of her tongue. _'Because I could see that you were in pain,'_ she wanted to say. _'Because what he's doing to you is killing you.' 'Because you're my friend.'_

Instead she allowed her heart to do the talking.

"Because I love you, you boob!" she shot back angrily.

Dean's anger leapt back like a startled kitten at that revelation, and it would have been funny, that stunned, gobsmacked expression on his face, if it weren't so heartbreaking, so telling. He gaped at her like the village idiot for a full ten second count before shaking himself free of whatever shocked emotions were playing havoc in his brain, befuddling it and making the world spin, before that deep well of sadness came flooding back. His eyes looked so sad, so aged for someone who most of the time was unbelievably immature (occasionally downright juvenile), and she thought in that moment that Dean had probably seen things that most people never had to witness in a lifetime.

"You don't mean that," he whispered. "Can't mean that... You don't... you don't _know_."

Stated as a simple truth: resigned, accepted, gospel truth. Dean Winchester was inherently unlovable because of some dark secret from his past. If he only had half a clue how fucking stupid he was for even thinking that.

"More like I don't care," she promised. "Dean... I know that bad stuff happened to you before you came to live with the Wesleys. And I've got no illusions about you being some kind of saint or something, all right?"

He huffed a laugh and sniffed.

"Whatever you did before, it doesn't mean that anyone has the right to hurt you like that."

"He didn't hurt me!" Dean defended, mildly scandalized. "I'm not some damsel in –"

"Oh, he hurt you plenty," she interrupted him, though kindly, quietly. "I saw you yesterday, remember? I know that he hurt you."

Dean chewed at the inside of his cheek as his eyes misted over. "I just gotta stop bein' such a wuss," he chided himself. "I mean, there's no point cryin' about it, right?"

Angela didn't feel like dignifying that with a response and instead punched him in his good arm in silent rebuke.

"You need to tell someone."

"I told _you_," he replied stubbornly.

"Someone who can make it stop," she corrected patiently.

Dean shook his head no.

"No one can know, Angela. If I don't do what he says he's gonna..." He sucked in a breath and chomped tightly onto his bottom lip to keep it from quivering again. "He's gonna hurt Sammy," he whispered dejectedly.

Angela could feel her blood positively boiling. Of course the Headmaster had threatened to hurt Sam. He was Dean's Achilles' Heel. He'd do anything for his little brother.

"He can't hurt him if he's in jail," she assured him, though she thought she might have growled a bit, and she was certain her right eye was twitching madly with the fury pounding through her.

"See, that's where you're wrong," Dean sighed. "Apparently he's got some online group of pervs lined up just waitin' to meet my little brother if I don't do what he says."

"Then we'll tell the police that too!"

"NO!" he shouted. "I fucking said no, Angela! No goddamned shitsucking cops! All they're gonna do is make a bad situation worse!"

"They can arrest him, Dean," she urged. And really, why was Dean adding two plus two and getting nine here? The police were generally the people you called when sick pervy men molested or threatened to molest little boys.

"They won't believe me!" he croaked. "And it'll just make everything worse. Trust me!"

Angela realized in that moment that things were about to get very crappy, very soon. Dean was adamant that they not involve anyone in this, and Angela knew that now, of all times, was the time to involve someone else. This was bad. Fucked-up-sick-gonna-make-her-hurl-and-lose-sleep-for-the-rest-of-her-life _bad_. Definitely not the kind of problem you sort out on your own. And God, Dean's way of dealing with it was to suffer in silence, to suck it up and just allow it to happen.

And that simply wasn't an option.

"Well you have to tell someone," she insisted. If he would just agree to telling his foster-parents, then she could trust that someone older and wiser and far more capable of getting results would be looking after this.

"I thought..." he chewed on his lip some more and stared a hole through the ground. "I thought about maybe... uh... maybe calling my Dad?"

Now _that_ she hadn't expected. Dean hero-worshipped his father, and the idea of him admitting to the man that some dirty, old, fat guy had been groping him seemed so out-of-character. In fact, John Winchester was the last person she would have thought Dean would turn to in this situation.

"Your Dad?" she queried carefully. "Not to point out the obvious or anything, but he's in jail."

Dean shrugged.

"He knows some people," he hedged.

Angela's eyebrows leapt into her hairline and did the conga.

"He knows some people?" she parroted incredulously. "Knows people like _hitmen_ kinda people?"

Another shrug.

"You're out of your mind!" Angela barked.

"Will you keep it down?" Dean admonished tightly as he cast a nervous glance around the park. Murder plots weren't the kind of thing you wanted others overhearing, apparently.

"Not to kill him," he whispered. "Just to... you know... scare him. Make him back the fuck off."

"Again, you're out of your mind," Angela repeated, more level this time. "If your Dad has got the kind of 'friends' you're suggesting, they'll send him to sleep with the fishes or... or cut something off."

"That'd be a big loss," Dean muttered darkly.

"Dean..." she warned.

He sniffed and scuffed at some dirt with his shoe.

"Seriously, though," he said thoughtfully. "My Dad knows some guys who're real good at, uh... impersonating people. Like, uh... official people. Like FBI or Federal Marshals. They could give ol' Walter a few things to shit his pants about – convince him to back off. And we wouldn't have to involve the real police."

"You're serious about this," Angela breathed in wonder. Dean was out of his goddamned mind.

"Like a heart attack." And he was grinning now. How could he grin like that and make everything seem bright and sunny and fine when she knew it wasn't? How did he have the power to smile and make the world right again? It wasn't right. It wasn't _fair_.

"Just give me another day, okay?" he asked, and when she looked to meet his eyes she could see they were overbright again, but hopeful-looking, like maybe he'd just stepped out of a deep, dark room to find that it wasn't raining outside or something. He had faith that this insane plan of his would work.

And she was torn. Deep down she knew she couldn't just sit on this. Mr. and Mrs. Wesley needed to know what was going on so they could help him – so they could keep him safe. But another part of her wanted to give him the chance to fix this in a way that wouldn't be so traumatizing for him. If Mr. Winchester really did have friends who could pretend to be cops or FBI agents and they could convince Headmaster Cunningham to back off, then maybe that was for the best. Then there wouldn't be any scandal, and Dean could maybe walk away from this with a bit of his pride still intact.

She couldn't begrudge him wanting to keep this private. But still... it was so colossally stupid and had so much potential to blow up in their faces.

"One night," she said at last. "One night to talk this over with your Dad and see if they can convince Mr. Cunningham to leave you alone."

Dean heaved a huge sigh of relief.

"But if he even thinks of calling you into his office tomorrow, all bets are off. I'll go in there and shoot him myself."

Dean's grin could melt the polar ice cap. "Sweetheart, I'll hand you the bullets."

888

It had been a long, _long_ day. The beginning of the school year was always a hectic time, with budgetary concerns and social committees and the Board of Directors breathing down his neck for this or that matter. Already concerned parents from the Women's Society were talking Prom, which meant forming a student committee, having elections and deciding on a theme. There were venues to select for the debate tournament in December, and Student Council elections would be coming up. And SATs were never far from anyone's thoughts – ever. Not to mention they'd had a mix-up with the order for the new basketball jerseys and football uniforms and had to re-order both sets.

It was enough to make a man drop dead from sheer exhaustion.

So it was a good thing that Walter Cunningham had Dean Winchester to look forward to on Friday. He sipped lazily at a dry, dry cabernet and languished in the comfort of his own plush sofa, his many folds settling into the cushy material as his t-bone steak and rosemary potatoes digested contentedly in his rather protuberant belly. He forced aside the memory of the child weeping in his office, blocked it from his conscious mind like a film with a black censor block. The boy was a whore: everything he lived and breathed was a lie. And Walter had almost fallen for it.

When the kid had confessed what that brutal ape of a man had done to him, how he'd 'wrecked' him, Walter had felt bile rising to his throat and had almost backed down on the whole arrangement. Dean had seemed so earnest in his pleas, so brokenly lost in those memories, that the portly Headmaster had felt his resolve crumbling as his sympathies towards the boy's plight made him soft and weak in the knees. He'd been a breath away from promising never to lay a hand on the kid ever again.

But then the little slut had changed tack: peering out the window at some phantom stalker with doom and gloom predictions about being watched and hunted. It was then that Walter realized that Dean would say or do anything to get himself out of Friday's engagement. The boy would sink to the lowest of levels, including producing the most real-looking crocodile tears Walter had ever witnessed, to get what he wanted, to wriggle out of doing what he must do – what Walter_ needed _him to do.

He was a damned, fucking, lying whore. The only thing he could ever trust where Dean was concerned was that wonderful feeling of being inside, that hot, tight pressure, that blissful connection to something beautiful and dirty. That was the Truth as Walter knew it. He couldn't fucking wait until Friday.

So lost was he in these thoughts, his cock stiffening in his pants as he contemplated devouring all that golden flesh, that he didn't near the soft padding of footsteps behind him until the sweet, chemical-laced cloth was pressed firmly over his mouth and nose. His senses were overwhelmed by the medicinal vapours invading his mouth and nose, his vision fraying at the edges as his eyes rolled back into his head.

He was unconscious before he could even squeak in protest.

888

The world came to him in stops and starts of swirling colours and sounds. His stomach lurched when consciousness assaulted him with the force of a Mack truck going 100 mph. He groaned and twitched, sweating streams of sickness through many layers of clothing – too many layers of clothing, as his cheek pressed against something cold and hard. He blinked his eyes open.

He was slumped over the kitchen table, clad in his best suit and looking to all the world as if he were ready to attend the Oscars or accept a Nobel Prize. His shoes, he noticed, were spit polished to a blindingly shiny sheen, so flawlessly clean that he could see his own face reflected in distorted fish-eye view.

"Wha....?" he mumbled as he tried to sit up to take stock of his situation. What the hell had happened? Had he drunk too much wine and decided to dress himself up to the nines?

"Good evening," a voice called from behind him, startling him bolt upright and causing his stomach to roil with renewed vigour. "I was beginning to think you would sleep the whole night away."

Walter attempted to turn towards the sound of the voice but something cold and hard pressed into the back of his head and prevented him moving an inch further.

"Please, don't get up," the man behind him ordered politely. "Sit a spell and chat with me, if you don't mind."

Walter would have liked to retort that he in fact did mind, thank you very much, but the sound of the gun cocking killed the words in his throat before they ever made it to his lips.

"I believe you've tried laying claim to something that belongs to me," the man explained cordially, if a little coldly. "I'd like to ask you to kindly refrain from doing so in the future."

Walter gulped, sweat dripping into his eyes in fat dollops.

"Of course," Walter assured the man in a trembling, weak voice. "I wouldn't dream of... of taking something that didn't belong to me."

The man behind him paused and sighed loudly – Walter hoped it was in relief.

"I'm glad to hear you say that," the man confessed. "For a moment I'd thought... Well, I'm sure you can imagine what I thought."

Walter really, really couldn't.

"You see, when I buy something, I like to consider it as an investment," the man went on. "I don't buy what's cheapest just for the sake of saving a few dollars because in the long run I know I'll end up losing money. I go for quality, Walter. Quality."

"Yes, of course," Walter croaked, desperate to show the strange intruder that they were on the same side. "But I assure you, I've never stolen anything in my life! I swear, I wouldn't touch something that didn't belong to me!"

A dry chuckle sounded from behind him and Walter felt his skin crawl at the sound. It was harsh and cold and _wrong_, like the laugh of a man who didn't know how to laugh and had learned to imitate it from listening to a computer or reading it in a book.

"Are you sure about that, Walter?"

The Headmaster felt the first hot tears of frustration pooling in his eyes and he did his best to suppress them. The gun at the back of his head was so cold and heavy and hard and it felt as though the metal were boring into his flesh, as though the bullet would crawl inside him and implode of its own accord.

"I swear!" he pleaded. "I'm no thief!"

The pressure on the back of his head eased off and Walter felt himself slumping in relief. His captor paced behind him, his feet soundlessly wearing a hole through the hardwood floor as he circled the ground not two feet behind Walter's back.

"If-if something's been taken from you, feel free to take whatever you need from me," Walter offered hopefully. "Whatever you need – just take it. I won't tell anyone, I promise!"

If he could convince the man to just take whatever he wanted and leave, Walter thought he might just make it out of this unscathed. The man was clearly unhinged, but perhaps he could be appeased if he were offered something to replace whatever it was that had been stolen. It was certainly worth a try – anything to make the man leave.

But there was no reply. Instead, just the sound of the incessant pacing, the silent feet ghosting across the floor as the assailant's pants rustled with the movement. Walter wondered if maybe he should make the offer again, louder this time.

"You made him cry," the voice suddenly said, and Walter squeezed his eyes shut tight at the feel of the gun barrel against his head once again.

"I don't understand..." Walter pleaded. "Please... please, don't hurt me! Oh God, just take anything you want! Don't hurt me!"

"You made him cry!" the man repeated, voice struggling to remain composed.

"Who?" Walter begged, tears streaming down his face. "Who—wh-I never hurt anyone!"

Then the man slapped down a series of glossy snapshots onto the table and Walter's heart lodged itself in his throat. They were pictures of him and Dean Winchester – pictures of his own sizeable back looming over the weeping teenager, his own hand poised to brush through those soft, spiky blonde locks. Photo after photo after photo cataloguing the boy's anguish as he begged and pleaded with Walter to show him mercy, to not make him do something he'd repeated over and over again he _couldn't_ do. And the last in the series showed Dean close-up, alert, eyes narrowed with suspicion as they peered almost directly at the camera, searching, scanning... Walter threw up in his mouth and had to choke it down when he realized his own folly.

Dean had warned him and he hadn't listened.

"What did you do to him or say to him, I wonder," the man mused thoughtfully, "to bring about such an exquisite reaction?"

"I-I didn't..." Walter blustered. "He skipped classes on his first day – I tried to lecture him... a-about attendance... and-and our standards."

"And he broke down crying?" the man queried dryly, clearly not convinced.

Walter didn't know what kind of a relationship this man had with Dean Winchester, but it was clear from his tone that he knew the boy wasn't likely to break down sobbing like that over a lecture. Walter was going to have to get creative.

"He propositioned me!" Walter blurted out desperately. "H-he offered himself to me if I would forego his punishment. And I turned him down – threatened to expel him! I swear!"

The man snorted a laugh and then slapped a few more glossy photos onto the table.

"Try again, fat man," he intoned.

Walter found himself gulping again. Dean Winchester reading a comic book, his brow slightly furrowed and his bottom lip parting teasingly from the top. Dean Winchester sprawled out on a ratty old couch in a loose pair of jogging pants and an onion-thin undershirt. Dean Winchester sleeping. They were all photos that the man Vincent from New York had sent to him through e-mail before they'd arranged for the visit all those months ago, photos he'd stored on his computer.

Unwittingly Walter's chin began to quiver as he felt his tears renewing their efforts to emasculate him in front of his tormentor. He had always wondered what it would feel like to be discovered, to have another human being look into his life and discover his secret. It felt like shame, being exposed as a sinner, a lost soul, a sick, hungry individual. He wanted to hide himself away and deny what he was. He wanted to dream about that beautiful boy, get lost inside that beautiful boy, and it not be _wrong_.

"You see, I'm quite familiar with these photos," the man explained conversationally as the gun was eased away from Walter's head again. "In fact, I'd wager a certain Italian would-be pimp sent them to me around the same time he sent them to you."

Without knowing why, Walter shook his head in denial.

"I took the liberty of going through your computer while you were finishing up 'at work,'" he said, adding air quotes to the word 'work' as though the concept were funny in the extreme. "And it looks like you took a trip to New York last April."

He sat down in the seat adjacent to the one Walter was sitting in, his long, lean limbs tucked away neatly into his body as he carefully, deliberately eased himself into the chair and stared intently across from his victim with cold, calculating grey eyes.

"See anything interesting while you were there?"

"I'm sorry!" Walter blubbered, truly panicked now. This entire attack, though terrifying in and of itself, had at least been theoretically manageable so long as he hadn't seen the gunman's face. Without seeing a face he knew that he was almost useless as a witness, and he could use that as a bargaining chip to convince the man to spare his life. But it all went out the window when the man sat down before him and boldly presented his face to his victim.

Walter began to dread he would never leave his house alive.

"I won't touch him again, I promise! I-I never meant to hurt him! I just – God, I couldn't help myself! I'm sick, okay? I'm very sick! I-I need help! Need therapy to learn to control my urges! But I won't... I won't go near him again, okay? I promise!"

"Did Dean beg you?" the man asked intently.

Walter shook his head no. Nonononono. If he said it enough times it make it true.

Gray Eyes smirked.

"Really?" he teased. "Because I may not be a lip-reader, but I'm pretty sure I know when I see the word please."

Walter's breath hitched as he sobbed.

"Wanna know how many times Dean said the word 'please' while he was sobbing in your office?"

It was a fact monumentally humbling, in a very biblical kind of way, that a paedophile and murderer could condemn him for his sins and make them real and true in his heart for the first time in his life. Here, standing at the threshold of eternity, Walter Cunningham saw himself. And he did not like what he saw.

"Please," Walter pleaded, then choked on his own tears at the cruel irony of his situation.

Grey Eyes chuckled and manoeuvred the gun so that it was pointed directly at Walter's chest.

"You're a bit of a hypocrite, aren't you fat man?" He narrowed his cold eyes and gave Walter a deep, penetrating look. "Was it that good?" he breathed. "Having him in New York? Did he get under your skin?"

Walter choked and sobbed, snot running down his top lip as he blubbered helplessly.

"He got under mine too," the man said wistfully. "I took one look at him and I just wanted to crawl inside... tear his flesh apart and listen to him scream until he became a part of me."

It was like someone had flipped a switch. Walter felt the temperature in the room drop, or maybe it was just his own blood freezing inside him at those chilling, chilling words. The lust behind them, the manic fervour in the man's eyes as he spoke them, made all the hairs on Walter's arms and on the back of his neck stand on end. There was a cold, lethal certainty to them, a finality, that hung in the air, swinging back and forth, like Poe's pendulum.

"He got away from me in New York, you know," the man confided. "Saw a peek at my bag of tricks and took off running – right into his little brother's arms, no less. Turned out to be quite the lucky break, in the long run, don't you think? Now he's here where I can keep an eye on him, whenever I want."

Walter swallowed past the lump in his throat and forced his voice to work.

"What are you going to do to him?" he whispered.

The man shrugged and stood once more to resume his pacing. "You needn't worry about that," he advised sagely. "Suffice it to say, though, your time with Dean Winchester is officially at an end."

Walter didn't have half a care whether he ever got to see or touch the boy again, so long as he knew the kid would be okay, would be safe from this... _God_, Walter didn't know what the man before him was, but the word 'monster' came to mind.

"You leave him alone!" Walter warned. "I was wrong to try to force him to be with me! I-I know that now! He doesn't deserve it!"

Like a flash the man was on his feet, fist raised and poised above Walter's head, ready to strike. The arm trembled with suppressed rage and Walter watched with wide eyes as the man struggled to maintain control of the mutinous limb.

"He deserves everything I will do to him and more!" the man spat. "He is mine! I _paid_ for him and he scurried away like a fucking rat!"

"Please!" Walter pleaded. "He's just a kid! Please don't hurt him!"

If he could make one thing right before he died, it would be this. He'd made a lot of mistakes in his life, most of them involving the unfortunate boy in question. If he could find some small way to spare him or warn him, he would die trying.

But the man barked a laugh and sneered.

"Are you growing a conscience now, Walter?" he threw his head back and laughed hollowly. "That's rich. This coming from the man who had potential child rapists lined up to take a crack at little Sam Wesley should Dean refuse." When Walter's eyes widened in shock the man smirked and nodded emphatically. "Oh that's right! I forgot to mention how deeply I went digging through your computer."

His own reflection stared back at Walter like a cruel, ugly imitation of the original, an ugly, blemished of the version of himself he presented to the world, of the man he'd always believed himself to be. He was a monster, too.

"I was wrong!" Walter sobbed. "God forgive me, I was wrong! And I'll go to Hell for what I've done – but you... you have a chance to redeem yourself! You have a chance to –"

"We're done talking," the man ordered sharply. "Nothing you have to say is of any interest to me. I've waited a long time to get what I want and now that things seem to be moving along I find I'm on a bit of a tight schedule. So if you don't mind..."

He tossed a plain pad of lined paper and the gold-plated pen Walter had received from the Board of Directors at the school's bi-centennial, onto the table.

"There is something I'd like you to do for me, though," the man said, smiling politely.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter Notes:**

A treat for all you wonderful readers and reviewers! Because you've all been so kind with your reviews and so awesomely supportive, I give you the latest chapter early. Apologies in advance for any and all mistakes: I wrote most of this today in one sitting and I don't have a beta!

We're moving to a close with the Walter portion of this story. WOO HOO! I know many of you have been screaming for it. As to Walter's fate, all I can say is this: the T-Rex took out the Velociraptors. If you think about it for a moment you'll understand what I mean. ;)

There's loads of angst and crying in this one, but I think it ends on a positive note. There be darkness looming on the horizon, but it won't happen how ya'll are thinking it will. Twists and turns abound in the chapters to come. Plus lots and lots of delicious fluffy moments because I think they're long overdue. (Not in this chapter, though).

* * *

Chapter 22

For the first time since this debacle with Headmaster Cunningham had begun two days ago, Dean felt that things might actually turn out okay. He hadn't been able to get hold of his father, him being in jail and all, and had been instructed to have his parent or guardian schedule a telephone appointment sometime later in the week with the Department of Corrections. Super.

So confiding in his Dad was definitely out. And though Dean was loath to admit it, Angela was right. Dean couldn't handle this on his own, and he did need someone to step in and make the whole train wreck stop. Because he couldn't have sex with Walter. No matter how much he tried to toughen himself up and be brave for Sammy's sake, the very idea of getting on his hands and knees again for that pig made him sick to his stomach, made his hands tremble and tears form unbidden in his eyes.

It was a deciding moment in his life and he knew it. He could fall back into familiar patterns, allow perverts like Walter to use and abuse him and remain silent and stoic as he'd always done (because really, what other choice had there been at the time?), or he could reach out to the ones that loved him, to the ones who told him time and again that they were looking out for him and would protect him, keep him safe, and _let_ them help him.

It was a no-brainer, really. So he called Bobby.

He didn't know what to say, or where to begin, and when he heard the familiar, gruff voice answer with his customary grumble of, _"Singer here," _he felt his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth and clammed up like a gaping fish.

"_Hello?"_ the grizzly, old hunter asked tentatively through the other line, and Dean could swear he heard the man sigh.

"_Suit yourself,"_ Bobby grumbled, no doubt preparing to hang up. That was when Dean's voice decided to work again.

"Bobby..." he choked out, and holy crap his hands were sweaty. The temperature in the room must have climbed several degrees since he'd decided to pick up the phone and dial the long-time family friend's number, because he was sure he wasn't that hot in the face when he'd gone into his room and closed the door. He could feel individual beads of sweat trickling down his back to pool in the waistband of his boxer shorts.

"_Dean?"_ The voice was ringing with concern, no doubt reflecting the instantly-alert hunter's keen sense of observation. He'd always been able to read Dean like a book – even when Dean was five and wasn't talking.

"Yeah," Dean heard himself replying weakly. He wished he could sound casual and, you know, make up some crap story about how he was just checkin' in with the old fart to make sure he was still alive and kicking – because seriously? – what had ever possessed him to dial up Bobby Singer to confess that he was being molested at school and blackmailed into having sex with the Headmaster? Suddenly he was five years old again and mute, standing in awe at the maze of wrecked cars at Singer's Salvage Yard and listening to the whiskeyed voice of his father arguing with old man Singer about going on a hunt and leaving the boys behind. Dean had been so terrified to be left with a stranger and his first instinct had been to beg and plead for his Daddy to not go away like Mommy did. But he'd remained resolutely mute and hadn't spoken a word. Eventually the kindly old mechanic had won him over with his easy manner and rough exterior, reminding him somehow of an imitation of his father. Bobby had become a safe haven during that two-week stay and Dean had even deigned to honour him with a departing, "Thank you Mr. Singer" before tossing his tiny body into the backseat of the Impala with baby Sammy when their father came to collect them. It was such a long time ago now, but Dean remembered Bobby being a safe harbour during a tempestuous time adrift at sea.

"_Somethin' the matter?"_ The old mechanic always was a sharp one, Dean thought ruefully as he was drawn out of his stroll down memory lane.

Dean chewed on the inside of his cheek and did not reply. What the fuck was he supposed to say? Confessing crap like this was so much easier when the person you were talking to had massively thick magnifying glasses and could read your fucking mind. It saved the whole trouble of, you know, _confessing_.

"_Okay, kiddo,"_ the hunter soothed through the line. _"Just stay with me, all right?"_

Dean nodded and then rolled his eyes at his own stupidity. _Bobby can't hear a nod through the phone, genius!_

"_You need my help with somethin', kid?"_ Bobby pressed gently.

Dean nodded again and then sighed. He'd obviously had one too many cracks on the head or something.

"Yeah," he mumbled at last. "Yeah... I uh.... need your help with somethin'."

888

Things were going to be okay. Confessing to Bobby had been hard, and Dean would rather knock his own teeth out with a hammer than ever relive the mortification of having to explain, however vaguely, the history and current situation with Walter Cunningham. But once the truth was out and the plan was hatched, Dean really began to relax. Bobby would be there in two days, during which time he'd have gotten himself together a "set of wheels suitable for a G-man" as well as a partner in crime to pose as his wing man. Probably Caleb. Dean was instructed to sit tight and stay the hell away from the dirty old man in the interim: if he was called to the office again he was to fake a seizure, double over with phantom stomach cramps – anything to keep him away from the tubby man's clutches until the posse could arrive to take care of business. By Thursday Bobby would be there and Walter would hopefully be shitting his pants in fear of ever dreaming to lay a hand on Dean again. And Sammy would be safe.

Dean felt so relieved he allowed himself to cry, albeit in a very subdued, manly sort of way. Which was, of course, when Jane Wesley decided to poke her head into his bedroom to see how he was doing. _Perfect_.

"Dean, sweetie, what's the matter?" she queried, her voice ringing with concern as she made a mad rush to his bedside to crouch in front of him. And as much as he didn't want to be, he was comforted by her presence.

Dean wasn't sure when it had happened, but apparently all his anger and resentment towards the wholesome Sammy-snatchers had faded away long ago. His vows of hating them forever for taking Sam away from him were dust in the wind now, replaced by warmer feelings of attachment that he never really wanted to look at too closely. They weren't family. They weren't. He told himself time and again that they would never be his family – because his family consisted of John, Mary, and Samuel Winchester and that was it. Except, maybe Suzie could be squeezed in there, too.

But all the hatred he'd borne for Peter and Jane Wesley had died away during the healing months of summer. Dean had never been very good at holding a grudge anyway. He'd burn hot and then fizzle out quickly because it took so much energy to stay angry with the people he cared about. So yes, he had to admit, however begrudgingly, that he did care about Peter and Jane. More than he wanted to admit to himself, and more than he would ever admit aloud.

"Baby, what happened?" Jane prodded softly as she used her long, slender thumb to trace a tear away from Dean's cheek.

He didn't know why but his heart always did a flutter when she called him baby, like his Mom used to, that made him feel warm and safe inside when he should be shouting at her to stop fucking calling him that. But he never did. Ever since the first time she'd said it during one of his nightmares, Dean had somehow found himself sinking into _home_ every time she used that word. It was stupid and wussy as hell, but he couldn't help the way that word made him feel when it came from Jane's lips. It was like having a mom again. Not _his_ mom, but _a_ mom.

"Dean...?"

He sniffed and raised his eyes from his lap to meet her concerned gaze.

"Nothin'," he replied with a shrug as he released the breath he'd been holding. "Just... I just need a minute, okay?"

But her eyes were so big and scared and he could see the pain behind him, the fear fuelling her actions, driving her to get to the bottom of his tears. Jane was there for every nightmare, holding him close or wiping the sweat from his brow. She washed away his tears and soothed the shakes when it all became too much in the dark shadows of the night. She fucking _cared_ and Dean knew it. And he could see now that his upset from yesterday was tearing her apart inside. The not knowing had to be killing her.

"Please, Dean," she pleaded softly as her eyes welled up. "Talk to me. Let me help you. Peter and I – we promised you back in New York that we'd never let anyone hurt you again, remember?"

Dean nodded that he did remember. That was a conversation he wasn't ever likely to forget.

"Well we can't protect you if you don't let us know when someone's hurting you." She bit her lip and then leaned closer. "Is someone hurting you, Dean?"

He could see her waiting with bated breath.

"It's okay," he assured her. "I got this one covered."

He tried for a playful wink but was pretty sure he looked more like some demented escaped mental patient with an eye twitch – pulling off suave after the two days he'd just had just wasn't happening.

"You've got it covered?" she repeated blankly. "What does that mean, Dean?"

"It means you don't have to worry." And that much was true. She didn't have to worry now. Bobby would take care of everything and Dean didn't have to tell her a damned thing.

And how could he tell her even if he wanted to? It was too horrible to even contemplate. Disgusting liaisons like the one he'd had in New York with Walter Cunningham weren't part of their clean, manicured realities. The Wesleys were polished and clean: the truth of Dean's whole situation with the Headmaster was filthy and dirty. If he told Jane it would ruin everything. Then she'd think of Walter and would have a visual. Then she'd fucking know more than she'd ever known before just how gross and depraved Dean was, just how used and soiled his body was. And he couldn't stand to have her look at him and picture Walter mounting him like some kind of Alpha dog.

Maybe it was irrational, but Dean liked to think that to the Wesleys, Dean's whoring days were all sort of hypothetical. Kind of like the bulk of Bill Gates's money, which existed in stocks and bonds and, you know, floated around in cyberland but never really exchanged hands in cold, hard cash the way it _could_. It was a fortune that existed in reality but was so monumentally huge that it was almost theoretical. Dean's whoring was like that. They knew he'd done it, knew it was the reality of his day-to-day life for three years, but it wasn't _real_. Well, telling them about Walter would be like handing Bill Gates several gazillion briefcases worth of money to present him with the entirety of his fortune. It would just be too much.

"Now... see? That just makes me more worried," Jane said, her voice ringing with real fear now. "If something's going on with you, you need to tell us so we can help you. I don't want you handling this on your own."

"I'm not," he promised cryptically.

"And what does that mean, exactly?" she questioned. "Angela's taking care of it?"

Dean snorted a hollow laugh. "Yeah right," he huffed. "That'd be pretty hilarious, actually."

"Dean..." Jane admonished tiredly.

"Look, it's nothing you need to know about, okay? Everything's fine." He looked in her eyes and didn't waver. "I'm okay. Okay?"

But she was shaking her head no.

"I'm not an idiot, Dean. I know something bad happened yesterday, and I know that we could make it better if you would just tell us what's going on..."

"But it's really okay!" he assured her. "I'll admit I was freaked out yesterday, but it's better now. I talked to my Dad's friend Bobby and he's gonna help..."

"Bobby Singer?"

Wow. Dean hadn't expected Jane to look so hurt by the revelation that he'd confided in the old family friend instead of her. He thought she'd actually be glad that he'd turned to an adult. Wasn't that what they were always telling him? Wasn't that what everyone always said: 'Go to an adult?' Or was there some secret rule about which adults you turned to? Maybe there'd been a memo and Dean had been too busy getting fucked up the ass in New York to read it.

"He's gonna take care of everything," Dean replied with a shrug. "And before you get yourself all freaked out, this isn't some kind of Wet Works operation, okay? It's just... you know... Bobby's gonna handle it."

"Handle what?" Jane asked desperately. "Dean... what's going on with you? What's Bobby taking care of? Just talk to me, Dean! Please!"

Another deciding moment. Maybe he should tell her. She was about ready to tear her hair out or climb the walls with worry, and Dean felt terrible for being the cause of it. Maybe he should just open up to her and let her know what had been going on for the past two days. Maybe then the weight on his shoulders wouldn't feel so fucking crushing. Maybe then she'd understand and would ease up a bit...

But Dean knew he couldn't. If he told her she'd hit the roof and then she and Peter would go straight to the police. That was another one of those things that everyone always insisted upon when adults touched children in _The Bad Place_: tell an adult so they can report it to the cops. And Dean didn't need any fucking cops looking into this. Then there'd be charges filed and Walter would make good on his threat and would send his internet rapist friends after Sam and Dean would never, ever forgive himself. Plus, there'd be the whole scandal of Dean's history with the Headmaster hitting the gossip circuit and the truth about his past would be aired like dirty laundry before all and sundry. And if he was allowing himself to be selfish, which he was, Dean would like to keep his disgusting past a secret for as long as possible. Plus, there was the fact that Jane would hate him when she found out he'd gotten on his knees and blown the Headmaster yesterday. Much as she claimed to care for him in spite of his past, it was sort of a given that he was accepted into the Wesley household _because_ it was in the past. The minute they found out he was back to his old tricks (even though it wasn't his choice), they'd probably toss him out on his ass and never let him see Sam or Suzie again.

So no, he couldn't tell Jane. The part of him that wanted to confide in her and take comfort in her was overruled by the rest of him. Telling Jane the truth wouldn't solve anything and would inevitably lead to so much more trouble in the long run. So he bit his tongue and plucked up the courage to lie to her and make her leave him alone. The longer she stayed, pleading with him with her sad eyes, the more his resolve wavered. He needed her gone _now_.

"I don't want to talk to you," he heard his voice darkly declare as he shrugged her hands away and stood up abruptly. He eyed her coldly before taking a few determined strides towards the en-suite bathroom in his room and paused in the doorway.

"Never been one for the whole heart-to-heart thing, toots, and even if I was, I sure as hell wouldn't be doin' it with you."

He forced himself to smirk at the hurt – scratch that – wounded expression on her face.

"I'm taking a piss now Jane," he intoned tiredly, lacing his voice with as much teenaged irritation as he could muster. "When I get back you'd better be fucking gone."

And without a second look he slammed the bathroom door behind him and willed himself not to cry when he heard her startled gasp through the door.

888

Something weird was going on. There were cops milling about at the main reception desk at the office, and everywhere he went he heard students whispering in hushed, frantic tones. The air was abuzz with gossip and speculation and an electric energy that pulsed through the collective heartbeat of Albright Academy. Dean's own pulse beat just a fraction faster than its normal lub-dub as wild theories behind the police presence screamed through his head. He found himself hoping that the old pervert had been caught coming on to some kid on the way home from school yesterday and had been arrested. Hell, maybe they were raiding his office right now looking for kiddie porn!

Dean didn't have to wait long to learn the truth.

It was lunch hour and he and Angela and Neil were deep in conversation about what could possibly be going on in Headmaster Cunningham's office when Caroline dropped the bombshell.

"The Headmaster's dead!" she whispered excitedly as she plunked ceremoniously into the seat next to Angela and plopped her tray of food down onto the table with a loud clunk.

It took a moment for the words to register and when they did Dean felt his blood going cold. He immediately thought of the presence he'd sensed yesterday and couldn't help the shudder that passed up his spine as he remembered the feeling of eyes watching him while he was in the Headmaster's office. Could that someone have been after Walter all along? Had Dean somehow sensed the presence of a murderer stalking its latest victim?

"Suicide," Caroline said conspiratorially as she leaned over the table so that all four heads of the assembled teens were close together, all ears trained on her every word.

"Suicide?" Dean asked incredulously, his cheeks flushing at the fact that his voice came out as little more than a squeak. He cleared his throat and tried for something stronger and decidedly more masculine. "Are you serious?" he asked.

The dark-haired girl glared at Dean and then rolled her eyes.

"Would I joke about something like that?" she asked scathingly. Dean wondered idly why Angela was friends with such a bitch.

"What...? How?" Angela asked, baffled. "How do you know?"

Caroline tried not to look smug as she prepared to make her reply.

"Mr. Cunningham lives a few doors down from us," she said with a shrug. "I guess when he didn't show up to work this morning the school called my Mom to ask if she could go check on him."

When Dean gave her a questioning look she sighed loudly and rolled her eyes again.

"She's on the Board of Directors," she explained slowly as if Dean was very, very retarded. "Anyway," she went on. "My Mom found the spare key under the mat when he didn't answer the doorbell and found him... I guess he'd gotten all dolled up in his best suit and wrote a note and everything. Shot himself in the head."

"Oh my God..." Neil gasped. "Is she... is your Mom okay? I mean... wow. How horrible to have been the one to find him."

Caroline nodded, her smug expression slipping away as she wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered.

"Mom was pretty upset," she agreed. "I mean, she _knew_ him. She never would have thought he'd be the type to do something like that, you know?"

Dean doubted Caroline's mom had known him particularly well, else she might have had reservations about socializing with the man. It wasn't generally considered socially acceptable to have sex with minors, after all. As if reading his thoughts, Angela's hugely magnified eyes turned to him in silent acknowledgment. She looked as freaked out as he felt.

"And he left a note?" Angela asked casually, though Dean could tell she was feeling anything but casual. He could practically hear the litany of '_whatthefucks_' screaming in her mind.

Again Caroline nodded and leaned closer.

"Mom wouldn't tell me what he said in the note," she admitted. "But when my Mom was there at his house talking to the police, you won't believe what they found."

Everyone waited, holding his or her respective breath, while Caroline prepared herself to go on.

"Mr. Cunningham...?" she gulped and paled visibly before continuing. "He was some kind of major perv or something. He had... he had this huge collection of random yearbook photos of teenaged boys from Albright students from the last ten years. All teenaged boys, like, thirteen or fourteen years old. Had them all laid out on the table next to the suicide note."

"Gross!" Neil exclaimed. "Like... guys our age?"

Caroline nodded. "Mom wouldn't have told me, only she kind of freaked out when she realized what kind of raving pervert he was. Started asking me all kinds of questions about whether I'd ever been called to the office."

"Wow – you're lucky he decided to off himself, then, Dean!" Neil joked bracingly. "The man probably had a crush on you, calling you into his office all the time."

Neil had obviously meant it to be funny, and in another life Dean probably would have laughed and joked back about having dodged a bullet. As it was, he was fighting the beginnings of a panic attack, and it took a monumental effort not to projectile vomit onto the cafeteria table. Dean's face felt so hot he felt certain he must be turning fucking purple. If there was smoke steaming from his ears he wouldn't be the least bit surprised.

"I shouldn't be telling you this," Caroline whispered again as she began shaking her head to clear her own muddled thoughts. "My mom would kill me if she found out I said anything. But I just can't get over it, you know...? I mean, we went to school with him every day. I can't believe he worked with us – _with kids_ – when he was like that, you know? I guess I just can't believe it."

"I can," Angela muttered darkly.

Dean couldn't help shooting her a murderous glare, willing her to shut the fuck up now before Neil or Caroline got any ideas, but it was obvious that it was too late for that. They were both eying him speculatively as if seeing him in a new light. Neil just gaped, clearly replaying his own portentously joked line about the Headmaster's probable crush on Dean, while Caroline got even paler and quickly averted her eyes. How likely was it that the two of them would connect the dots as Angela had done – would add up Dean's frequent calls to the Headmaster's office, Dean's meltdown two days prior, Dean's drunken ramblings about needing showers and being disgusting? It was probably a matter of minutes before they figured out what he was really hoping they wouldn't figure out.

Dean was officially overwhelmed.

"I gotta go," he blurted out. Like a shot he was up and out of his seat, eating up the linoleum of the cafeteria floor with long, urgent strides. He didn't care which direction he went, so long as it took him away from prying eyes and hushed whispers.

He snuck away into the nearest boys' bathroom and shut himself into the stall furthest from the door. He just needed to fucking think and process. Walter was dead. Walter was fucking _dead_. Fancied himself up in his best suit and blew his brains out, only after he'd written a farewell note and exposed his own dark secret by laying out the evidence of his sick fantasies? Was that even remotely possible?

Dean lowered himself onto the toilet seat and tried to still the trembling in his traitorous limbs. His legs felt like jelly and bounced nervously of their own accord. Walter had left a note. A fucking note. _Jesus H. Sweet Fucking Christ, what had he said in the note?_ Had he confessed what he'd done to Dean? Dean gulped through the rising panic. Had he mentioned Dean – had he mentioned his name? Would more people be connecting dots? Would he be interrogated by police and guidance counsellors to get to the bottom of that sordid, tangled mess? Would everyone at Albright know what he'd done with Headmaster Cunningham?

So much for Jane's painstakingly made avocado, alfalfa veggie wrap. With barely a warning gurgle from his stomach, Dean was spinning and tearing open the toilet lid up, retching violently into the porcelain bowl as his whole body spasmed with the effort.

Okay, this puking thing was getting old. If he didn't get his fucking shit together he was going to start getting skinny again. He hadn't been on his morning run since he'd broken his collarbone, and apparently Albright Academy made him hork his guts up almost every day. He needed to get a fucking grip or people were going to _know_ that something was up. Nothing spelled trouble like running off to ralph in the middle of a disturbing conversation.

He just had to play it cool. Keep his head down and his emotions in check. Bobby would be here tomorrow and he could look into things for him. The G-man front would totally work, considering the evidence of paedophilia allegedly found in the Headmaster's house. FBI were always called in when kids were involved, weren't they? Wait... Maybe that was just for when kids went missing? Regardless, Bobby as a fake Fed could get access to that suicide note and more and could let Dean know one way or the other if Dean had been implicated in the whole sorry mess. Dean just hoped that Walter hadn't kept any of those pictures Vinnie had sent him over the internet last April. He groaned inwardly at the thought as more bile lurched its way up his throat with the clenching of his aching stomach muscles. Of course Walter had kept them.

Once the last bout of sickness had passed, Dean sighed tiredly and flushed the toilet. It was only a matter of time before everyone found out his secret, and then even Angela wouldn't be able to pretend that he wasn't a worthless, disgusting freak.

888

Having Dean Winchester as a best friend was like riding a roller coaster without any safety bar: there were ups and downs, at times it was exhilaratingly fun and at others it was make-you-pee-yourself terrifying. They say that, when you love someone, you have to take the good with the bad, and Angela was learning that, while basking in the light of Dean's friendship was awesome, wallowing in the darkness of his pain sucked. She tried very hard not to take on other peoples' problems: Lord knows she had enough baggage of her own to cripple her on bad days. But sometimes the darkness that surrounded Dean was so all-encompassing that it swallowed her up too. So when he hurt, she hurt.

She cast her eyes guiltily in his direction as his too-pretty eyes laboured over their latest reading assignment, his brow furrowed in concentration, and she wondered idly if he was really paying attention to the short-story they were reading, or if he was as preoccupied with the Headmaster's suicide as she was. Thinking about it made her stomach churn and she had to take a few quick breaths to steady herself because panic was always a real concern when you'd gone full-on Judas on your best friend to tattle to his Mom – or in Dean's case, his foster-Mom. She didn't feel guilty for doing it, per se. It was more that she was terrified in the almost-certainty that he would hate her forever.

But she'd done what needed to be done and would do it again if the clock rewound and she found herself in the same situation again. She'd promised not to tell anyone, especially not Mr. and Mrs. Wesley, until Dean spoke with his father first. She'd promised because there was a real threat to little Sam. But now that Headmaster Cunningham was dead, the immediate threat to Dean's little brother was clearly removed, and Angela felt that Dean's foster parents needed to know the truth so that they could help get Dean through what had to be a horribly trying time for him. He'd just been groped and blackmailed by his teacher and then said teacher had off and killed himself.

Hell, knowing the secret of all this was doing wonders for her stomach (and really, she wondered how long it took to build an ulcer and if it was as rare for fourteen year-olds as the doctors said), so she could only imagine what it was doing to Dean. Dean was the one who'd endured it. Dean was the one who was undoubtedly agonizing over the role he played in the Headmaster's suicide. Someone killing himself because he'd done something terrible to you had to mess with your head, no matter how much of a relief it might be that they were dead and couldn't hurt you anymore.

And see? That there was another thing to compound Dean's feelings of worthlessness and guilt. He was probably feeling guilty for feeling relieved that they guy was dead. It really was a vicious circle, and Dean needed someone to take the matter in hand. So she'd given him the proverbial traitor's kiss of death and gone straight to a payphone during the remainder of their lunch break to call Mrs. Wesley while Dean was off horking his guts out in the boys' bathroom. She chewed the inside her cheek and agonized over all the ways this could play out. She'd made the phone call maybe twenty minutes ago. Mrs. Wesley had been shocked but grateful, thanking Angela again and again in hushed tones for confiding in her. Twenty minutes for Angela to stew and remember the heavy silence on the other end of the phone after Angela had told her what the now-dead Headmaster had been doing to Dean. Twenty minutes for Angela to envision police swarming the school and summoning Dean to interrogate him about the molestation and take skin samples or whatever it was they did when they collected evidence. Twenty minutes to picture Mrs. Wesley bursting through the classroom door to whisk Dean away to safety. Twenty minutes to picture the look of betrayal on Dean's face when he realized what Angela had done.

"Excuse me, Mrs. McKinley?" the secretary's voice suddenly crackled through the intercom and Angela had to hold her breath because _holy shit! This was it!_

"Yes?" their English teacher replied with a sigh, her eyes falling unconsciously toward Dean, who stiffened and looked offended at the implication.

"Can you please send Dean Winchester to the office immediately?"

All eyes turned to Dean and Angela could swear her heart stopped beating.

"This is beginning to be a bit of a habit with you, isn't it?" Mrs. McKinley joked, then realized she hadn't replied to the secretary and rolled her eyes. "Yes, Grace. I'll send him down straightaway."

Dean scrambled for his books with trembling hands, shoving them haphazardly inside his bookbag in a rush to get the hell out of sight.

"While you're there, Dean," Mrs. McKinley drawled, "you might want to suggest they summon you out during Biology next time, or Phys Ed. If they keep pulling you from my class I'm going to start thinking you don't like me."

Everyone in the class laughed but Dean and Angela: Dean who'd gone pale and grimaced in his attempt to force a grin, and Angela who thought she might take a leaf out of Dean's book and worship the porcelain god in the girls' washroom. Dean cast his eyes in her direction and she winced at how wide and panicked they were. Like a coward Angela found herself turning away, avoiding his gaze and actually flinching at the feel of those pleading green eyes of his looking to her for some kind of comfort.

But traitors didn't get to give comfort to the people they'd betrayed, so Angela kept her guilty eyes set firmly on the swirling pattern of wood grain on her desk, wondering all the while if Dean would ever talk to her again when he realized what she'd done.

888

The weird had gotten weirder. Jane was here to collect him and Sam and Suzie and she looked freaked out and red-eyed. She'd obviously been crying, but when Dean arrived she didn't say a word. She just squeezed little Sammy's shoulder reassuringly and said, "Come on, boys. Let's go."

That much was a relief, at least. There were no police or psychologists or guidance counsellors waiting to ambush him with questions about the Headmaster. For now that ugly little secret appeared to remain a secret. The Wesleys and Dean made their way outside as a single unit, no talking or joking about being let out of school early as the tension roiling through the Wesley matriarch was palpably thick – so thick even a seven year-old knew to keep silent. All three children piled into the mini-van when they reached the parking lot, Dean taking the front seat, as was his right as the eldest, and quirking a questioning brow in Jane's direction.

"Everything okay?" he queried.

Jane just sniffed and nodded.

"Is everything okay with Dad?" Sam asked worriedly from the bench seat behind them.

"Dad's fine, Sam," she assured him with another sniffle.

"Then why'd you come and get us from school? Is it Grandma or Grandpa Wesley?" the kid's voice was tinged with fear.

"No-no, everyone's fine," Jane promised. But Dean could see her hands were trembling.

"Actually," she said. "Sam and Suzie, I'm going to drop you off with them – you'll be staying with Grandma and Grandpa Wesley for a little while."

_Oh holy crap!_ Well _that_ couldn't be good.

"I want Dean to come!" Suzie whined.

_Yes, yes please – let Dean come too_, he thought miserably. Sermons from Margaret Wesley were infinitely preferable to whatever inquisition awaited him back home. He was sure of it. If they were dropping Sam and Suzie off then things must be really bad. The police must have found the photos of him or maybe Walter had confessed to fucking Dean in his suicide note. They probably all thought he was still fucking him and were probably sending him away. So much for it still being a secret.

"Yeah, why can't Dean come?" Sam asked suspiciously.

Jane didn't answer and that made Dean feel so much worse. She wouldn't look at him, kept her eyes held resolutely on the road ahead, and without knowing why he found himself rubbing unconsciously at his arms as if to warm himself, as Caroline had done earlier at lunch. Maybe he should apologize for being such a dick last night. He hadn't meant to hurt Jane's feelings – well technically he _had_, but it was only to make her stop asking questions. Maybe if he apologized she wouldn't send him away.

By the time they'd arrived at Abraham and Margaret's, Dean had begun to tremble. He'd thought being blackmailed by the Headmaster was bad, but this was worse. Worrying about what Jane and Peter were going to say, knowing that they were finally through with him and were probably dropping him off at a boys' home or shelter or something, filled him with such dread that he couldn't stop the tremors that ran through him. It was just like the last time – when he was nine and they didn't want to keep him. They'd lured him away then, too, separating him from Sam so that he wouldn't create a scene when they dropped him off with the Social Worker. Only now he'd actually stupidly allowed himself to get attached to them, too, and he so badly didn't want to go.

"I'm sorry!" Dean blurted as soon as Sam and Suzie had disappeared from view within the large front doors of Abraham and Margaret's house. Jane switched the car into reverse wordlessly as they pulled out of the driveway and then threw the car into drive.

"I shouldn't have said that to you last night!" Dean pleaded. "And I'm sorry about all this..." he couldn't bring himself to say further than that, because even if Jane knew what he'd done with the Headmaster, saying it aloud burned like acid in his throat.

"I won't do it again, I promise!" He watched her eyes as they stared ahead at the road, watched as her mouth tightened and yet she didn't say anything. She didn't reply, just stared ahead like the staring made Dean mute and invisible, made him disappear altogether. She probably couldn't bear to look at him, probably couldn't stand the sound of his voice, knowing what he'd done, knowing that he hadn't changed at all and that he was still just as filthy and depraved as he'd been the day they decided to take him home with them. And he wasn't ever likely to forget that they hadn't wanted to take him home with them.

He'd fucked everything up. He wasn't sure how, but he knew it was his fault and that he'd fucked it up. Normal people didn't get blackmailed by their teachers to have sex with them. Only people who were worthless got that kind of special treatment. And normal people didn't have past sexual histories with their teachers from their whoring days, either. That one was definitely Dean's fault. If he hadn't already fucked Walter none of this would have happened.

"Please, don't send me back!" Dean begged brokenly. "I know I screwed up again and that this so isn't the kind of shit you want in your house... But... but I can stay out of trouble! I don't gotta go to school – I could stay home and, and mow the lawn or clean the pool or work around the house or whatever. I could stay out of the way and just like... just be out of the way. I'll be good, I promise!"

Jane was sniffling now and he could see her bottom lip trembling. _Fuck_, he was making her cry! She _so _didn't want to hear this shit, listening to him beg like some pathetic loser. But what choice did he have if they were going to send him away?

"Please, please, don't send me away!" Dean cried without shame as the floodgates opened with his breaking heart. "Jane...? Jane, please? Say somethin'?"

Jane gasped and suddenly yanked the steering wheel hard to the right, tires screeching as the minivan pulled onto the shoulder of the road. Her foot slammed onto the brake and the vehicle came skidding to a stop while Dean clung to the armrests in a white-knuckled grip, his eyes wide with shock. When they came to a complete stop the car fell into an awkward, unnatural silence, and Dean thought maybe Jane was going to order him to just get out of the car and leave him on the side of the road. Well, he _had_ asked her to say something, hadn't he?

"Dean," Jane whispered, then turned slowly to look at him with eyes so filled with sorrow that he lost his breath. Had _he_ done that? Had he made her hurt like that? He instantly wished he could crawl into a hole and die for putting that despairing look in her eyes, because it seemed to reflect perfectly how he was feeling in that very moment, and _nobody_ was supposed to feel the way he did, especially not anyone in his new family.

Maybe she didn't want to get rid of him: maybe she had to, for Sam and Suzie's sake. Maybe Peter had ordered her to. Dean continued to hold his breath, waiting for the order to get out, or the explanation of why he couldn't stay.

"Dean," she whispered again as her whole face crumbled with anguish.

And then in a rush her arms were around him, pulling him so tight he felt his held breath squeezed out of him. She clung to him desperately as she began to sob and for a moment he was so stunned by the sudden emotional outburst that he remained frozen in place, stiff like a board as his foster-mother shook around him with the force of her crying. He wasn't really sure now what this was about, and he sure as hell didn't know what he was supposed to do to make it better. But he selfishly indulged himself in the comforting feel of her arms around him, taking in that Mom-smell (hopefully not for the last time) as he relaxed against her.

"Dean... God... why didn't you tell me?" she pleaded as she pulled away briefly to lock her grey eyes with his. "Why didn't you tell me?"

His legs, it appeared, weren't the only traitorous parts on his body. His lip, too, had it out for him as it jiggled rebelliously at the question.

"Honey," Jane struggled to speak through the thickness of her voice, through the constriction in her throat. "_Baby_, you don't ever, ever, _ever_ let anyone force you into doing something you don't want to do."

And then she reached out with a trembling hand to stroke a few rogue tears from Dean's cheek. Until that point he hadn't even realized that he'd begun crying.

"No one has the right," she said in earnest, the other hand joining the first at his cheeks to cup his face in both hands like he was some kind of precious thing. "Not anyone. Not for any reason. Do you understand me?"

He nodded that he did, even though he wasn't sure. She didn't know the whole story (or at least he sure as hell hoped she didn't). And he didn't know how much she knew, or _how_ she knew. So he couldn't very well say that he understood exactly what she meant, when it was likely that she didn't know exactly what she meant.

"Now, I understand that you thought you were doing what was best because you were trying to protect Sam," she said bracingly and her voice had regained some of its strength. She eyed him sternly, giving his face a gentle shake to make sure he was listening intently as she stared deeply, almost fiercely, into his eyes. "But that's my job and Peter's job. That's not your job."

"Lookin' after Sammy _is_ my job," Dean insisted, though it came out sounding rather weak, mumbled even. "Most important job I'll ever have."

Then Jane looked sad again, her features softening as her glistening eyes bore into him full fathoms deep with pity and understanding. She sighed and smiled at him, her lips stretching slowly as though they were stiff with cold.

"Your father would never have wanted you to sacrifice yourself, Dean," she said sadly. "Not even for Sam. Not like that."

Dean doubted that. Much as he knew his Dad loved him, he'd always felt that Sam was more important, more precious. Maybe it was because he was the baby, or maybe it was because Mom had died trying to protect Sam. Part of Dean suspected that it was because Sam was just sweeter, more inherently good than Dean could ever be. Why else would Dad have left them alone in shoddy motel rooms for days at a time, gruff instructions to 'Look out for Sammy' the only parting words as Dean was left to worry, and sometimes even went hungry so that Sammy could eat, while Dad was off fighting evil? Whatever the reason, Dean had always understood, had accepted that Sam was more important. Heck, he'd always loved Sam better than himself, so it made sense if Dad loved Sam more than him too. It was simple math, really.

"You don't understand," Dean defended, though it was hard to form the words through the teary lump in his throat. "He was gonna send some pervert after Sam! They'da hurt Sam and wrecked him – and I couldn't let that happen! There's... there's no undoin' that once it happens, Jane! It woulda wrecked him!"

"But it was okay for the Headmaster to wreck you?" Jane whispered pointedly.

Dean shrugged and averted his eyes to his lap. "Nothin' to wreck here," he admitted with a half-quirked grimace pulled at one side of his mouth. "Damage's already done."

She sighed and lifted his chin with her hand so that his eyes met hers once again.

"Is that why you got so upset on Monday?" she queried lightly. "Because there was nothing to wreck?"

Dean sniffed and shrugged again, pulling his face away from her grip so he could stare more intently at his jean-clad knees.

"Wherever you're takin' me, we should probably get going," he said absently. "People are gonna think we're 'parking'."

She eyed him for a long moment, that look of pity back in her eyes, before she eased the car back into Drive and pulled off the shoulder of the road and back onto the street.

"We're going home," she informed him at length. "And for the last time, Dean, we're not sending you away. I just thought you would want some privacy while you and me and Peter talk this thing out."

Dean wanted to laugh at the absurdity of that statement. What the hell was there to talk about? They weren't exactly rewriting the _Constitution_ here. Dean had fucked up and shit had hit the fan – same song, different verse. What, exactly, were they supposed to 'talk out'?

Dean Winchester learned an important lesson about being a Wesley that day. He learned that when you 'talked things out' with your family, you cried a lot and they cried a lot and huge, massively embarrassing confessions came about involving performing fallacio on a teacher in his office. And families hugged when they cried together, apparently, and it was weird and uncomfortable and by the time it was done Dean's head was pounding and he was so tired he wanted to just sleep for a week straight.

For the second time in a twenty-four hour span someone who wasn't Sam or his Dad told him that they loved him. It was weird and scary when Jane said it – especially because he thought she might not be lying (especially not with the way she was hugging him and crying snot bubbles on his shoulder as she said it over and over again like a mantra so that he wouldn't ever forget).

So to test that theory, he'd told them about Walter in New York. He told them probably more than he should have, explaining about Vinnie and the photos and the internet pimping, and the threats to strangle him if he didn't please the John. He even told them, through broken sobs, about Vinnie's brutal attack with the baton after Walter left. He didn't know why, because a large part of him clung to that deep, dark moment with greedy, cloying fingers, unable and unwilling to relinquish it to the light. He didn't want to tell them, but it was as if a floodgate had opened and everything came spilling out. His therapist, Dr. Oxley, had told him that talking about his 'past traumas' would be a way of letting them go, and he hoped it was true, because it felt almost good to get that off his chest, to confide in someone who wasn't Walter himself, about that horrible, nightmarish moment on Vinnie's kitchen floor. And then Peter was crying too, though he tried really hard to look like he wasn't, and Dean felt guilty for being selfish enough to unburden his monstrously craptastic baggage on them. The baby-faced man was constantly wiping at his eyes beneath his glasses, and he looked so sad and guilty Dean was starting to get the impression that they didn't even blame him for what happened, then or now. If anything, they seemed to blame themselves for all of it.

"We want you to understand that you can tell us anything," Jane said solemnly as she cupped his face again (and really, it was weird in the extreme but admittedly comforting). "Anything."

"No matter how awful or embarrassing you think it is," Peter added as he squeezed Dean's shoulder. "No taking on the weight of the world to handle things like this by yourself. Especially not if it puts you at risk."

"But Sam..." Dean tried to protest.

"We would never let anything happen to Sam," Peter assured him. "If you'd told us everything we would have kept Sam safe. We'd keep him home with us until Walter was arrested and all of his internet friends were rounded up."

Dean didn't see how that was possible, until Peter had gone on to explain to him about IP addresses and how things like internet chats and e-mails were traceable if police knew where to look. And if Walter had been arrested and his computer confiscated, then the other chat members, including the ones interested in Sam, would also be traceable. Then Dean felt very foolish for having been so ignorant – doing things his way probably would have kept him under Cunningham's thumb, as the man's personal whore, for months. And while he still didn't trust the police to lift a finger to help him, he was pretty sure they'd have jumped to attention at the mere mention of sexual predators preying upon a ten year-old boy, especially when that ten year-old boy was the adopted grandson of Abraham Wesley.

So maybe he'd blown Cunningham when he didn't even have to. Dean felt a savage sense of gratitude that the sick fuck was dead, at his own hand no less. He hoped the fat fucker was rotting in Hell.

The hardest part of the discussion, however, involved the matter of the Headmaster himself. Jane and Peter wanted to report the late Walter T. Cunningham to the police and Dean was having none of it.

"There's no point!" he insisted urgently. "The man's dead and he ain't gettin' any deader! If we go to the police with this all it's going to do is draw all kinds of attention toward us, and that's somethin' I really don't want."

"But people need to know what kind of a monster he was," Jane explained heatedly. "He can't get away with it; dead or alive, people need to know!"

Dean shrugged.

"The man offed himself, Jane. I'm guessin' he felt guilty about it in the end. And besides, I heard he fessed up to bein' a perv by layin' out a bunch of photos he'd been stashing away over the years. Big collection of pretty Albright boys' pictures or somethin'."

"Where did you hear this?" Peter asked sharply.

"I got my sources," Dean hedged. "Anyway, if the police haven't shown up at our door yet, my guess – _my hope_ – is that my picture wasn't among them. I just... I don't wanna deal with all that. I only started school here three days ago. If this gets out about me and Cunningham, it'll follow me right through to graduation. Besides, if anyone started diggin' around, it wouldn't be too hard to connect the dots on the whole New York front. Do we really want everyone finding out how I met Walter in the first place?"

He could see by the looks on his foster parents' faces that he'd struck a chord with them, the truth of that last assertion ringing true.

"Just let it lie, yeah?" Dean pressed. "No good'll come out of it anyway. What's done is done. Cunningham's dead; everyone's safe, so... So let's just call it a day and we'll all pretend it never happened."

Twin expressions of blank disbelief greeted him and Dean grimaced.

"Or we call it a day and I have a good long chat with Dr. Oxley about it at therapy tomorrow?" he suggested brightly.

It was a step in the right direction.

Later that night when Sam and Suzie had returned from their grandparents' house and they were all curled up on the couch watching "Encino Man," Dean couldn't help the smile that stole its way across his face in the blue-lit darkness. It had been a shit-ass crappy week, but somehow they'd all made it through okay. Sure, he'd cried more this one week than he had in the last year, but the worst of it was past now and Dean dared to believe that things might actually be okay.

Still, he was so kicking Angela's ass for ratting him out to Jane and Peter. Dean could connect the dots, too.

TBC

* * *

**Coming Up:**

Soon, Dean gets a girlfriend and the Wesleys expand. Plus, Dennis rears his ugly head.

If you've got a minute, please drop me a line to tell me what you think. I welcome criticisms and suggestions -- so if there's anything you're dying to see in here, do let me know and I'll see if I can squeeze it in!


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter Notes:**

So sorry for the long wait! This chapter did NOT write itself. There was a lot of stuff to cover and it switches POVs so much you might get whiplash. But it was necessary. I had a lot of loose ends to tie up (including the Walter arc), but it's finally DONE!

There is something that I feel I ought to address, though, because several of you have been asking about Sam (or the lack thereof in the last few chapters), and I want to tackle it head on.

Sam is an astute kid and he loves his brother, but he's only 10 years old. With that in mind, it is my belief that, smart though he may be, he couldn't possibly put two and two together and come up with the same conclusion that Angela did. And because he's only 10, nobody is volunteering explanations to help him make sense of things. I don't think it would be appropriate to get someone that young involved, and I also think it would be a stretch of the imagination to have Sam figure it out on his own. The kid's pretty sheltered and he just doesn't understand sex -- especially sex between same-sex couples, and ESPECIALLY sex between an adult and a child. It just plain doesn't enter into his imagination to even contemplate it. But rest assured, he _does_ realize that something is wrong with his brother, and he _is_ worried. I haven't forgotten him. But there was a lot of other stuff to cover with the Walter arc that needed coverage first.

After this we're moving on to a new phase of the story -- with lots of good stuff, particularly of the comforting kind. I think some TLC is just what the doctor ordered.

Thanks, from the bottom of my heart, for your time and patience with this, espcially to those of you who take the time to review. It means so much, especially for a girl who's come out of a shit-ass month that _sucked out loud_. I can't thank you enough for your kind words, helpful suggestions, and thought-filled responses. You guys make all the hard work and effort worth while.

* * *

Chapter 23

_You think you know someone._

Detective Davis shook his head in wonder as he eased the latex gloves off his caramel-skinned hands with a snap. It had been a long day and all he wanted to do was sink into the couch, snuggle with his honey, and suck back a nice cold one. He wanted to forget this day, forget the stash of child pornography that he'd been forced to catalogue, forget the disgusting e-mails he'd had to peruse, the photos he'd had to index, and just wipe his memory clear of the pervert formally known as Walter T. Cunningham. A goddamned teacher. Correction: a fucking Headmaster at a prestigious private school.

Some people were just sick, he figured.

"A-hem," a gruff voice coughed pointedly from the doorway, drawing the young detective from his brooding thoughts as he snapped back to attention.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

Standing just inside the foyer of the taped-off crime scene were two very polished, very professional-looking men in crisp, black suits. The older and taller of the two gave a curt nod, his rusting short-cropped beard framing his tight mouth as he grimaced at the photographs lined along the granite countertop, which the detective had just finished itemizing and recording in the evidence log.

"Agent Crawley," the man grunted in acknowledgment as he made his way toward the counter to examine the photos, brandishing a gleaming badge inside a leather case before snapping it shut perfunctorily. "My partner, Agent Osborne."

Agent Crawley's young partner, Osborne, nodded his prematurely balding head and narrowed his eyes at the photos as his sharp eyes took a quick perusal of the young faces on display while at the same time flipping open his own badge for Davis's inspection.

"I didn't realize that the Bureau would be getting involved in this case," Davis admitted nervously. "I mean, I know the guy was a perv but he's dead, right? Not much harm he can do now."

He winced as the slick-haired Crawley gave him a brief, scathing look before taking a casual stroll through the kitchen, his gaze settling on everything and nothing as he got a feel for the living space of the recently deceased man under inspection.

"We think he might have been involved in the disappearance of a young boy in Tucson," he explained tightly. Davis resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the FBI and its cloak and dagger bullshit. He really didn't have the patience for their theatrics, nor did he care to get involved in a Federal investigation if he didn't have to.

"This guy?" Davis asked incredulously. "You really think this white bred yuppie teacher could be involved in a kidnapping?"

Osborne shrugged and gave the young detective a weak grin.

"Probably not, but we have to follow every lead. We followed an online chatroom and it led us here."

Davis nodded. He'd seen the transcripts of some of the discussions in the chatroom.

"So if you don't mind," Crawley intoned imperiously. "We'll just take a quick look at what you've found and then get outta yer hair."

"Be my guest," Davis replied. Who the hell was he to argue with the Bureau when it was following a lead? He just hoped they didn't confiscate any of his evidence.

The two agents went to work sifting through the materials they'd gathered so far. They scrutinized each photo, taking in the names of the students and the dates the photos were taken – all details which young Davis and his partner Sullivan had painstakingly gathered by going through archived yearbooks, matching the pictures from the books with the pictures the Headmaster had collected. There was a clear pattern to the deceased's tastes: he liked them young and pretty, which, considering they were boys, was kind of creepy.

"This one a student at Albright now?" Crawley asked sharply as he came upon one of the more recently collected photos.

"Owen Hudson," Davis piped up. Good looking kid. Pretty like the others, dark-haired with a little bit of acne. "Grade nine. Parents don't want him being interviewed at school, so he's being brought into the station for questioning this evening. So far we've got nothing from anyone we've contacted. If old Walter had a thing for these kids, it looks like he was keeping it to himself."

The gruff old agent huffed.

"I really don't think he's your guy," Davis added.

"Yeah, well, we'll see," Crawley gruffed.

The two FBI men continued in their silent search, sharing the occasional observation about this or that photo, before turning their attention to the computer, at which point the younger agent Osborne took the driver's seat.

"It looks like there's a gap in the e-mails here," the sharp-faced young agent observed several minutes into his search through the deceased's computer. "In April of this year and again in July."

Davis nodded. He'd noticed and wondered about that.

"Looks like he cleaned out some stuff before he killed himself," the detective agreed. "We think he might have been protecting the identity of his most recent obsession."

This statement had both agents looking at him in rapt attention.

"Yeah?" Crawley queried. "How d'you figure?"

"The note," Davis said slowly, obviously, because _duh_ – it was pretty clear from the damned note that Walter T. Cunningham had set his sights on someone and had maybe crossed a line.

"That's right," Agent Osborne said soberly. "The note. We'll need to see that as well."

"Of course," Davis agreed. They were behaving a little strangely. He'd have thought they would want to see the note first in case it held any clues about their supposed victim.

Without further ado or ceremony, Davis retrieved the now-bagged and tagged suicide note from the evidence box and laid it out on the computer desk for the two waiting agents to read through.

'_You are my sickness,' _the younger agent read aloud._ 'You've made me face the monster within myself and I find that I cannot fight it. I have tried to deny what I am, but I cannot ignore it when you are so close a temptation. I am weak and foolish for daring to touch the sun. It burned me. __**You**__ burned me._

'_I give myself up to God and pray He will have mercy on my soul. Please forgive me for what I have done, for I cannot forgive myself._

'_Walter T. Cunningham'_

"Huh," Agent Crawley huffed dully. "Well that wasn't cryptic or anything."

Osborne nodded in agreement, his lips pursed together tightly in a mirthless smile.

"Doesn't really give us much to go on, does it?"

"You think he took his fantasies up a notch and made a move on someone?" Crawley queried as he scratched at his bearded chin.

"That's what it looks like," Davis agreed with a heavy sigh. "Though we're not sure who. We've got some students slotted for interviews this afternoon over at Albright. Most of them are from the photos here – older boys who've grown up a bit since their photos were taken and collected by the deceased. Plus Owen Hudson, who'll be coming to the station with his parents this evening. And one boy whose photo wasn't in the collection but who we think might have caught the Headmaster's eye."

Both agents quirked questioning eyebrows in his direction.

"A new kid named Dean Winchester," Davis explained with a shrug. "When we asked the secretary at Albright if anyone was getting any special attention from the Headmaster, she said that there was a new trouble-maker who'd been summoned to the office two days in a row. It would also explain why there aren't any photos of him – being that he's new and all." Another shrug for good measure. "It's a long shot, but we're looking into it all the same."

"Of course," Osborne acceded casually. "Um... what time were they going to conduct these interviews?"

888

'_Where's my purse? Where's my purse!'_ her mind screamed as she scrambled through the house in a mad rush, her hair falling loosely out of a clip as she attempted to trap it in some kind of presentable twist at the back of her head, her shoes clanking against the hardwood floor as she fought her way into her jacket with limbs that scavenged behind seat cushions and under pillows and beneath coats on the coat rack. She knew she'd left it somewhere near the door, or she thought she had… She'd been a bit distracted at the time, all things considered, but she could have sworn she left it near the front door.

Then Suzie's plaintive whining to borrow her purse to 'play make-up' sprang to mind and Jane made a quick turn as she righted her most presentable-looking suit jacket and made her way upstairs. Sure enough, the purse was on the floor in Suzie's room, its contents scattered about haphazardly at the foot of Suzie's vanity mirror. It appeared the youngest Wesley needed a refresher in keeping her room clean. Jane made a mental note to have a talk with her baby girl when she got home from school.

But in the meantime, those shady, two-faced cops were about to interrogate Dean about his relationship with the headmaster and she'd barely been given a heads-up – which she was fairly certain was in direct violation of some law or another: juveniles were required to have a parent or lawyer present for any police interrogation or questioning. The school secretary most emphatically did not count. If they started before she got there heads would roll.

Jane did a quick inventory of herself: clothes – check; shoes – check; keys – check; melt-through-steel-Mom-glower – check. Everything in place and feeling moderately presentable, Jane made her way out the front door, locking it behind her, so that she could be present for Dean's interview with the police.

It was all happening so fast. She was glad to finally know what had been eating Dean up inside, but at the same time she felt terribly weighed down by it. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't imagine looking at that child and thinking it would be okay to hurt him, to use him. It would take a special kind of soulless monster to look into his eyes when he was crying, to see the hurt there, and then proceed to hurt him anyway. And that is exactly what Headmaster Cunningham had done. He'd abused his power as head of that school and had broken a boy's spirit, all for the sake of satisfying his own sick urges. Poor Dean had begged for reprieve and Walter had been deaf to it.

Not unlike herself when that same boy, at age nine, had begged her to let him stay with his brother. She'd looked into those same pleading eyes, the ones that haunted her when darkness fell, and she'd closed off her heart, telling herself all the while that it was for the best, and told him 'no'. She'd told him 'no' and cast him off into this dark life.

It was her fault that he was so damaged now, that he had no sense of self worth, that he had been violated at such a young age and then been sold off like so much trash, his body used and abused by countless nameless, faceless men.

It ate at her soul. She had to blink through the tears as her vision blurred, keeping her eyes firmly on the road even though her heart and mind were miles away.

Hindsight is 20/20, they say. More than ever, Jane understood that expression now. Dean Winchester had frightened her at age nine, all wild and foul-mouthed and full of threats and burning, burning hatred. She'd seen only a frightening little hell-child, a boy so far gone along the same terrible path as his father, and she'd shied away from it. She'd seen Sam with his big, dewy soft eyes and gorgeous dimples and chubby folds of baby fat and had seen hope and potential, a big brother for Suzie. But Dean had been so feral, so querulous and angry. She'd looked at Dean and seen trouble.

Now she knew differently. That rabid, frothy-mouthed child with the fiery green eyes had been reacting like a wounded animal. He was a cub with his paw caught in a bear trap: bleeding and in agony and so desperate to free himself that he'd have chewed off the entangled limb or attacked anyone that came near in his bid for escape. But underneath all that fear and anger was still someone's lost and hurt baby boy. She hadn't seen it then. She saw it all too clearly now.

And now… Now that fiery, fighting spirit was so beaten down in him. It was there. She imagined it would always be there, no matter how bad things got, no matter how desperate or hopeless his situation became. But now there was resigned acceptance and self-loathing. When before he'd raged at the injustice of his situation, now there was blame that he clearly directed entirely inward. He thought it was his fault – all of it. He expected people to blame him for what had been done to him, as if he'd somehow invited it or earned it. He clearly thought that the horrible mess with Walter Cunningham was something he'd brought on himself, as though that disgusting man had some prior claim to him and therefore had legitimate rights to his body because he'd paid for it once.

Dean talked as if he wanted to believe that his body was his own, that no one had a right to do to him what Walter had done – but Jane could see the doubt in his eyes as they shone over-bright with the promise of tears when she and Peter repeated over and over again that no one had a right to use him, that he could say no and it would mean something, that if someone tried to force him to do something it made _them_ bad, not _him_. And it broke her heart because if he didn't learn his own worth he would likely be preyed upon by people who sought out low self-esteemed teens like him. Hell, friends, lovers, even family would all bully him by using his self-doubt against him if he let them.

And he _would_ let them. That beautiful boy was so starved for love and affection that his anger fizzled out more quickly with each day. She'd seen it happen with her and Peter, knew how much he'd loathed her and her husband when they first brought him to Phoenix. But a few kind words with a little bit of affection had won him over completely, in spite of the fact that Peter had already overstepped his bounds and damned-near assaulted the boy during the summer. She'd seen him forgive Sam and Angela as they teased Dean, sometimes to the point of being mean, about how ignorant and near illiterate he was. It worried her so much because, in spite of his colourful vocabulary and sharp wit, Dean tended to soak up abuse like a sponge. He took the barbs and insults with casual indifference or a sharp rejoinder, but underneath it all Jane could see that the words stung.

And she worried. She couldn't let history repeat itself with Dean. He needed a clean break from all the pain and abuse and misery. He needed family holidays and Christmas and her mother's homemade apple pie and horseback riding and Sam and Suzie and after-school sports and whatever other things make up the fond memories of happy children. This horror show of pervert men slithering into their lives to feast on Dean was just…

It was just _bullshit_.

Jane Wesley was never going to let anyone lay their filthy paws on any of her children ever again. Dean may be a new addition to the family, and he may go by the name Winchester, but he was a treasure, for all that he was rough, and she didn't care if he ever got enough polish to shine like the diamond he was underneath. So long as she could keep him safe and see him happy, she'd have at least fulfilled the job she knew now was the reason God had placed her on this Earth. She'd have been a good mother.

But first she had to rescue Dean from the Spanish Inquisition.

888

Today was not a bad day. Not a bad day at all. After the emotional vomit-fest that was yesterday, Dean had been very glad to ease into a day without fears and secrets. He very pointedly ignored Angela Platt, giving her the coldest shoulder he could, pretending he could neither see nor hear her when she approached him at lunch with profound apologies whispered desperately under her breath. Maybe another day of ignoring her and he'd relent. Or maybe he'd give her a call later that night to let her know what a suck-ass friend she was, and thank her for looking out for him. Or maybe he'd just go ahead and kick her ass like he really wanted to. He hadn't decided.

But he was feeling lighter than he had in what felt like weeks. Walter was dead, and while that was freaky in and of itself, he was officially off Dean's back so Dean could try getting back to his own charade at normal. That would be cool.

The minor heart attack he had when he was called to the office yet again – much to Mrs. McKinley's dismay – was the only set-back, and was quickly diffused when he saw a familiar face waiting for him at the office in the form of one Agent Crawley, more fondly known as Bobby Singer. Dean tried not to snicker when he was led into the ex-Headmaster's office by a young, dark-skinned police detective while Bobby and his "partner" followed him in, looking distinctly stern and Fed-like in their matching black suits and shiny, shiny shoes. It was almost wrong seeing Bobby without the trucker's cap. And the other guy – a sharp-faced, fair-haired, slightly balding young man Dean couldn't quite place – looked like he'd be more suited herding steers at a rodeo than in a government agency. But the fact that Dean knew these two chuckleheads were hunters might have coloured his vision somewhat.

The questions went without a hitch, and for the first time since this whole mess started, Dean didn't feel like pissing himself while talking about Walter Cunningham. He was cool and collected, cocky and nonchalant. He played up his ignorance, though was sure to admit that the old Headmaster gave him the creeps and had 'stared a little too long' and 'I thought once he was checking out my ass.' He'd smirked for good measure and added a lightly veiled threat to sue the school for emotional trauma. Rich, privileged kids often threatened shit like that, didn't they? _'My daddy's gonna sue your daddy.'_

By the time Jane Wesley arrived, looking as frazzled as a cat run through a car wash, the interview was over and Dean was being released to return to his class. He heaved a sigh of relief and shared a commiserating look with an older boy who'd been called in after Dean for his interview with the police.

"We're good," he'd assured Jane as he slung his backpack casually over his left shoulder and grinned. "Smoke but no fire."

Jane eyed him suspiciously for a long moment and then caught sight of Bobby. It was almost comical the way her eyes widened with recognition before she schooled her features into some semblance of a cool mask. Damn the woman sucked at playing it cool.

"I see..." she muttered under her breath. "Why don't you head on back to class, Dean?" she added lightly. "I need to have a little chat with these fine gentlemen of the law."

Dean saluted her and made a hasty retreat, smirking again when he heard her angry voice shouting through the office door.

'If I ever hear of this kind of misconduct again I will see that all three of you lose your badges! Do I make myself clear?'

Sometimes, Jane Wesley was seriously awesome.

'Violation of rights...!''Interrogating a minor without a parent or guardian present...!''Discussing details of a case not suitable for the ears of a minor...!'

That one had Dean chuckling to the point that his cheeks hurt. Fact was, Dean probably knew more about sex than Jane could use to fill a teaspoon. She probably couldn't even imagine some of the shit he'd seen and done and had done to him. Religious types were all about the missionary style, weren't they? No kink or fun – just man on top.

He gagged and shuddered at the unwanted mental images that train of thought brought up. Definitely not thinking about Peter and Jane naked _ever_.

Dean allowed himself to sigh in relief. It was over. The worst was finally fucking over. From what Dean had managed to glean from his brief interview with the police detective and the "Feds" – he chuckled at the memory of Bobby and the other hunter's weak questions – there were no e-mails or pictures linking Dean with the Headmaster. His recent visits to the office, and those visits alone, were the reason he'd been summoned for questioning. So he was in the clear. No one knew about the history between the former Headmaster and the retired young prostitute and, if Dean had his way, no one ever would.

Now, if he was lucky, Peter and Jane might let him hang out with Bobby and the other guy (Dean thought it might be a young hunter named Caleb something) before they left town. He hoped so, even though it seemed unlikely, considering he was grounded until Sunday for the whole drinking debacle on Monday night. He wondered if it would be pushing his luck to ask.

888

Not for the first time in his life, Sam Wesley wished that he was older than his mere ten years. Maybe then people would take him seriously; maybe then he wouldn't be kept out of the loop because he was too young to have his sensitive, baby feelings hurt. Maybe then Dean would stop treating him like the truth would break him apart. Because, seriously? The hushed conversations and shared glances and overall feeling of doom and gloom were wearing on his nerves, and Sam found it difficult to curb his natural worry for his brother at the best of times.

So when Dean flipped out on Monday and ditched school to get drunk at Angela's, Sam _knew_ that something was wrong. And when Dean swore – on a Bible – that nothing was wrong, Sam knew that he was lying. And when Dean came home from school the following day exhausted and subdued, shutting himself away for the night in his room to get caught up on his homework, Sam had been forced to 'give him space' because Mom and Dad thought Dean needed some time alone. And now something was going on with the Headmaster being dead and the police wanting to interview Dean and Bobby and some skinny, balding young hunter guy had come to visit dressed as the Blues Brothers...

Sam thought it was high time to pitch a pre-teen fit and if he weren't too proud and self-possessed he might well have done it, too. Something was wrong with his brother and no one would tell him what it was. Worse yet, no one would let him help. Even Angela Platt, who Sam had always thought was on the same page as him, had clammed up and forced a brave smile and promised through her damned lying tongue that Dean was just fine – _'just having a hard time adjusting at a new school, is all.'_ Like Sam didn't know his own brother better than to believe that crap.

He wished everyone would stop trying so hard to protect him from the truth. It left him feeling decidedly outside. Dean was his brother – his flesh and blood family. Heck, Sam was the one that had stood up to his parents back in New York. He was the one that had sensed the danger chasing Dean and had insisted they bring Dean back to Phoenix. Sam had a right to know what was going on. And if someone didn't tell him right now, he was pretty sure he was going to explode.

It was a good thing it was Thursday and the week was almost over, because Sam was going to have a very serious talk with his stubborn-ass big brother.

888

Never had kids of his own. It'd always been their plan – his and Maizie's – to have a whole litter of 'em some day, but life just never really worked out that way. They started trying late, and then the demon got in the middle of everything 'fore any of that could happen, and one terror-filled night of _bloodscreamin'babywhat'sgottenintoyou?_ and like a flash it was all gone. Widower at thirty-seven. Turned hunter the same year.

Bobby Singer would have called himself a lot of things, but after Maizie's blood soaked into his skin so deep it couldn't ever be washed clean, a family man sure as hell wasn't one of 'em. From then on he'd always thought of himself as a lone wolf, or would have if he hadn't always felt so damned old and useless. Killin' your wife 'cos she's possessed by a demon'll do that to you. Ages you. Knocks a couple decades off with each stroke of the blade. So he was a solitary man, maybe. Hermit and crack-pot to most. That junkyard of his worked as a damned good mending wall. _'Good fences make good neighbours'_ indeed. Frost could go right to hell screwin' himself.

But he'd be damned if he hadn't come right 'round in a full 180 goin' on ten years ago when he'd first laid eyes on that solemn-faced little boy with the haunted hazel eyes, the too-long blonde hair and ghosted-away voice. That cockscuker John Winchester had helped him on a hunt or two 'fore he up and showed up at the salvage yard with his two young pups and just left 'em there, as if Bobby knew half a pig's fart about lookin' after a couple of damned babies. One too small to do more'n toddle around, bumpin' into shit and gurglin' all dimply-faced and droolin,' happy like a pig in slop; and the other so quiet and serious he might as well have been a spirit. Turned out they weren't any kinda trouble at all. The baby, Sammy, was sweet-tempered and independent – not needy or clingy or whiny. He'd crawl or hobble around on his tiny, stumpy, chubby little legs and entertain himself for hours gooberin' on the broken TV remote or starin' at the sigils on the wall as if they were talkin' to him. And the other one, Dean, was the perfect picture of obedience and responsibility, cleanin' up after his baby brother, followin' him around to make sure he didn't get into trouble, steppin' up onto the toilet to brush his tiny little teeth 'fore bed and tuckin' himself in without so much as a 'how'd you do?' to Bobby. Mighta been creepy, seein' as the kid was only five, but there was somethin' so earnest about the kid's quiet, resigned calmness, as if he was doin' it all for his Daddy's benefit – as if he was hopin' with his whole body that, if he behaved well enough, the man would come back for him.

It'd broken his heart to see a kid lookin' so lost, so desperate for love and approval, that he'd stopped bein' a kid altogether. It had taken time to gain the boy's trust, and even then the kid had been so stoically silent, so intensely mute and locked within himself. A world of pain stabbed inside that little heart and Bobby had only been able to just be there, be a solid presence in an unstable and frightening world. All the same, they'd become fast friends in no time.

And truth be told, Bobby had been some glad to see young Dean Winchester eventually grow to be a bit of a loud-mouthed kid (as if he was makin' up for all those months of silence by bein' a smart-ass with a tongue sharper than most kids ten years his senior). Once the boy found his voice again he'd been all full of piss and vinegar, all smart-alecky comments and good humour and bad jokes. Obedient as an automaton around his Daddy, and always respectful of Bobby and any other of John's hunter friends who came around. But full of fire and wilfulness and stubborn as a damned mule.

And the very idea of some sick fuckin' pervert layin' a hand on him now, when the kid had already been to Hell and back, made Bobby so very angry he thought he might spit nails.

No, he'd never had kids, but in the years after Maizie's death he'd imagined a lot of _could-have-beens_, and over the years his imagination had supplanted Dean and Sam on dreamed fishing trips or camp-outs in the woods; it was Dean he took to little league, and Sam he accompanied for his first day at kindergarten, when before it'd always been faceless mini-Bobby's and mini-Maizie's filling the spaces of his _never-was_. The fantasies he rarely allowed himself to indulge in involved two little boys callin' _him_ Daddy instead of John Winchester.

So when someone hurt his boys, even though they weren't exactly _his_ boys, Bobby saw red. And if Walter T. Cunningham hadn't seen the light and offed himself, Bobby would have made himself real acquainted with the portly Headmaster. He'd'a made the pathetic sack of skin cry and cry some more before he kicked his sorry ass into next week.

"You need anything – anything at all – you just give me a call, you hear?" Bobby said sternly as he squeezed the eldest Winchester brother tightly on his uninjured shoulder.

The kid nodded and blushed a little, and he might have been five years old again for how small he looked in the old hunter's eyes. That damned school uniform, with the tie and sweater vest, looked so out-of-place on the kid that Bobby'd had to laugh at him for it. It softened the edges somehow. Made him look younger, less rough. Even at nine, little Dean Winchester had somehow been able to spell wrong-side-of-the-tracks with a simple faded pair of jeans or a well-worn T-shirt. But it sure as hell was hard to look bad-ass when you went to prep school and dressed like a damned accountant-in-training.

"And I'll be seein' you end'a next month," Bobby added with a warm smile. "Soon as that shoulder of yours heals up."

The bright-eyed grin that met his was enough to make the old man chuckle deep in his belly. God he loved those kids. Til the day he died, he'd never forgive himself for losin' track of Dean after John was arrested. Sam, at least, had landed in a good, safe place. But Dean... Well, it was best not to dwell too deeply on what had happened to Dean. The kid was safe now and that was all that mattered.

"Take care of this idjit brother of yours," Bobby said to Sam as he ruffled the floppy brown mop of hair and received a reluctant dimpled grin by way of reply.

"Can't help if no one'll tell me what's goin' on," the kid muttered sullenly.

'_Well Sam,'_ Bobby thought ruefully. _'That one you'll just have to suck up – 'cos we sure as shit ain't explainin' this sorry mess to you.'_ Didn't say it, though. Sam was too damned young to be involved in any of this, and all the adults agreed, while Dean adamantly insisted, that Sam would not be informed about what was going on with the Headmaster. He didn't need to know – and knowing would likely scar the kid for life. So Bobby didn't say anything, didn't rise to the bait. Would only make the kid more curious, and Christ knew Sam Winchester, or Wesley, or whatever the hell his name was these days, was like a dog with a bone when he got an idea into his head. He'd pestered Bobby with dozens of private phone calls for books on the Supernatural so that he could read up, keep his brother safe, and make his biological Daddy proud.

Sweet as hell, those Winchester boys were. Loving and devoted and so fiercely protective of each other, even after all that time apart, that it brought tears to the old mechanic's eyes. He couldn't have been prouder if they were his own.

"I'll be seein' you both real soon," Bobby promised. "Maybe I'll take y'all out fishin' out at Jones's lake. Or we could go rabbit huntin' with my old blood hound, Nixon."

"Me too?" the tiny, blonde, pigtailed little Wesley girl asked, or rather, demanded, hopefully. "Can I come too?"

Bobby scratched the back of his head anxiously, looking to Jane and Peter Wesley for some kind of support or permission or something. Suzie was their biological kid, and Bobby was pretty sure that the very religious Wesleys didn't want any of their kids messin' around with the kind of stuff John Winchester's hunter friends were involved in. But Dean saved him having to make any kind of answer.

"Long as they say it's okay," the boy assured her, inclining his head towards her Mom and Dad.

She grinned big and wrapped her skinny arms around Dean's waist, clinging to him like a barnacle on a rock.

"I'll catch a big one!" she said excitedly. "And then we can bring it back to Mommy and Daddy!"

Dean rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh.

"What is this?" he asked plaintively. "You think you're Spiderman and I'm a wall, or what?"

Suzie giggled and held on tighter.

"Not lettin' go!" she pronounced stubbornly, impishly, as she repositioned herself so that she was standing on his feet.

Sam looked like he wanted to strangle her or something, and Bobby had to suppress another chuckle at the mulish, petulant, _jealous_ look on the kid's face. _Dean must be in absolute heaven_, Bobby thought. These two little'uns just worshiped the ground he walked on, and given how starved for love and affection the boy had always seemed to be, he seemed to soak it up like a plant drawing energy from the sun. Hell, the kid almost kind of glowed with it. He'd even lay money down that Dean loved having that little girl climb all over him like some kind of howler monkey, as though the constant grabbing and hugging and annoying pawing were proof positive that she loved him just as he was.

"Right, well..." Bobby drawled. "Best be hittin' the road."

They said their goodbyes amidst the hustle and confusion of food preparation for supper, and Bobby eased himself out of sight and away from the bright sunshine of this normal family – or, he amended, as normal as this family would ever get – to make his escape. Suzie remained firmly attached to Dean's front, standing on his feet as he walked her through the kitchen to lay out the place settings while Sam stubbornly announced that "Dean's watching '3 Ninjas' with me tonight and there's no girls allowed!"

Long as they kept on loving him, Bobby thought, Dean would be all right.

888

Time to get back into a routine. The shit had hit the fan and, miraculously, came out smelling like roses. That was definitely a first in Dean Winchester's experience. The hateful twist of fate that'd brought Dean and Walter back into each others' lives had righted itself, apparently, and things were blessedly back to normal. Dean had three more days of his grounding (they'd commuted his sentence to one week when they learned what had prompted the drinking binge) and then he was home free. Another month and change with the damned sling and hopefully his collarbone would have healed enough for him to start using his right arm again. And after that he'd finally be getting some hunter training with Bobby.

Life was good.

But it was definitely time to get back into the routine. It felt like ages since he'd gone for his morning run and just thinking about how inactive he'd been since he demolished his shoulder made him feel flabby and lazy. He needed to get back into it. Sitting on his ass was not his style. He craved motion and movement, stimulation and activity. Doing nothing was _boring_.

So it was that he found himself, at five a.m. that Friday morning, cruising through the familiar streets in the early morning dark, streetlamps lighting his way through a black world still slumbering. It jostled his shoulder a bit to be running, but the burn in his legs felt good. He wove down side streets, cutting a familiar path towards the park, ACDC serenading him through the tiny speakers of his headphones, his walkman clutched tightly in his left hand. Just him and the darkness and the music and that slow, stretching burn of muscles working overtime. It felt damned good.

It was a route he knew well, one he'd taken every day for the better part of four months, weaving through neighbourhood streets, crossing through parks, wending his way through the suburbs of Phoenix for an hour at least, sometimes pushing it as far as too. So long as he was back at the house by seven, he'd have plenty of time to cover the three S's: shit, shower and shave. Right – and eat. That left him with two hours to kill, and after the weeks of inactivity from the busted arm, Dean felt like stretching his legs a bit. An hour out and back would do the trick.

It was a good time to be out, Dean thought. The whole world was still asleep, all silent and dark and ghostly in its serenity. Dean liked the quiet, liked passing through the darkness like a whisper on the wind, unnoticed by the people whose houses he passed. It gave him time to think, to focus, to dream. When he was running his mind wasn't cluttered with what-ifs and I-shoulda-dones; when he was running there was only the immediacy of the here and now. Then he could always gain perspective, could make plans and see things rationally and calmly.

He needed to fix things with Angela, he realized as his legs pumped him forward along the concrete of the sidewalk. The day's worth of silence was punishment enough – if he took it any further he'd definitely be acting like a chick, and he'd been emasculated enough in his young life to ever want to contemplate doing other chick-like things, or, God forbid, adopting chick-like coping mechanisms to deal with his baggage. Silent treatment and passive-aggressive behaviour leaned heavily toward one helluva slippery slope. Before he knew it he'd be braiding Suzie's hair and sobbing into a half-eaten tub of Haagen Daaz. No fucking thank you.

And he needed to get his ass in gear and at least attempt to get some school work done. He'd seriously fucking slacked all week – though even he could admit that he had a valid excuse for dropping the ball – and he needed to get caught up. The last thing he wanted was to get a dressing-down from Abraham Wesley for being a lazy-assed fuck-up. He was supposed to be seizing the day, or something, with this whole education thing. Not a drop-out loser whore. Not gutter trash anymore, apparently. Earning his way to being something... more?

Dean shrugged even as he ran. If that's what the old patriarch wanted from him, that's what Dean would do. Besides, it felt good to have something to work towards. Until he could really get into the hunting thing, he supposed it wouldn't be so bad to give school a shot. Not that he was going to be a geek about it like Sam or Angela. _Fuck no!_ But he'd try to do better than just scrape by. He'd... God, it was lame just thinking it within the confines of his own mind... he'd have to _apply_ himself. But he figured he could do it.

These thoughts carried him through yet another park – one of his favourites because of the large baseball diamond he and Sam had practiced pitching in during the summer and because of the water fountain. It was a regular pit stop on his morning runs, where Dean would always pause to gulp down heaving mouthfuls of crisp, cold water. He bent forward and pressed the silver nub, eliciting a perfectly hooked stream of refreshing though slightly metallic-tasting water. Dean slurped greedily as Bon Scott's voice proudly screeched, _'I'm TNT'_ into his ears through the headphones.

He was about to straighten, his thumb easing off the button, when a chill ran up his spin, his breath freezing on the air as the temperature around him plummeted. Dean froze, hand still on the button, as the hairs on his arms and neck stood on end, gooseflesh prickling along his skin with the sudden and very real presence looming over him. Ghost, his mind screamed. A fucking ghost, here in the park.

He didn't have any salt, or iron, or anything that could repel spirits. It was Supernatural 101 and he was defenseless as a kitten, like an idiot caught with his pants down, his junk in his hands. Fucking peachy.

The water streamed soundlessly down the steel basin, the button still depressed by Dean's straining thumb as his mind scrambled for a solution, a way out, a means of escape from something that couldn't be killed because it was already dead. He lifted his head fractionally, his lips barely an inch from the stream of the fountain, as he raised his green-eyed gaze to see the semi-transparent form of Walter T. Cunningham before him. Not three feet away.

He gulped a panicked breath and tried not to think about how cosmically unlucky he was that the asshole that'd molested him was now haunting him in death. But then, restless or angry spirits were born of violent deaths: murder and suicide. And Walter had offed himself.

But the ghost of the portly Headmaster didn't appear angry at all. His eyes were wide and desperate, his mouth busy in a soundless loop Dean couldn't hear because of the headphones. Over and over again the ghost-lips moved, repeating the same two words and then alternating to s repeat of another two words. Over and over again. Dean squinted, still crouched over the fountain, as he read those lips.

'_Look out!'_ They said. _'Behind you!'_

Later Dean would realize that, in death, Walter T. Cunningham had saved his life.

888

It was time to strike. He'd waited so long, so long, had had to curb the urges, satisfy his needs, through other means, while he waited for the time to be right to make his move. Almost a dozen boys had breathed their last agonized breaths, tears spilling down soiled cheeks as he wrung the life from them as they flailed ineffectually against him. And it was Dean's fault. Every last one of them was dead because they'd taken _his_ place. So it was only right that the beautiful, beautiful boy with the soulful green eyes and sinful pouty lips was finally made to pay his dues. He'd been paid for, after all.

Dennis waited in the darkness, hoping that today would be the day that Dean finally returned to the regularly scheduled program. He'd waited every morning for the past three mornings but had been disappointed. Apparently that broken collarbone was keeping Dean in his bed, instead of out for his daily dose of excessive exercise.

But then the fates smiled upon him and the front door opened, and out into the darkness emerged that fallen angel. Dean clapped his trusty headphones over his ears, pressed the play button and took off at a brisk jog, warming up before breaking into a run several minutes later. Dennis grinned, feral and lust-laden, as he started the engine and eased off down a side street on the right, away from where Dean took his usual left onto Bedmont Street, so that he could intercept him at the park – the one with the baseball diamond and the big water fountain. When the kid bent over, as he did every morning during his run, to quench his thirst, Dennis would clamp the chloroform-soaked rag over the boy's mouth and then he would finally _have him_.

Thinking about feeling those young muscles going lax with unconsciousness as he pressed the boy's back against his chest made him hard, his pants tightening in anticipation. Not long now. Not long and then the wait would finally be over.

He parked his BMW behind the tree line, beyond where any prying eyes would see it, or him, when the time came to stuff the boy into the trunk, and made his way on silent feet toward the park. There were a few streetlights lighting the field and surrounding playground, but two of them were busted – courtesy of Dennis's careful aim with a few well-tossed rocks – leaving the whole park in semi-darkness, excepting the dim yellow glow cast by the remaining, unbroken lights at the further end.

Dennis drew a ski mask over his face and crouched behind a patch of bushes near the fountain. He held his breath, his heart hammering in his chest so loudly he thought surely the boy would hear it, even through the headphones, warning him to run away before Dennis could make his move. But it had to be today. It had to be. He'd waited so long, and there were so many chances that that God-loving moron Peter would start asking the right questions and would put two-and-two together. It was only a matter of time. So he had to act now. He had to claim his prize now or he might never get the chance again.

Forty-five minutes he waited, his leg muscles cramping from the strain of remaining in a crouch, but when his prize came in sight all the pain was forgotten. He watched as those long legs ate up the ground, watched as Dean slowed down to a jog and then a quick trot as he eased his speed down to approach the fountain. The boy was glistening with sweat, his golden skin looking eerily white in the faint light from the distant street light. He watched as the young whore panted for breath as he came upon the fountain.

Dennis grinned excitedly as he took in the sight of the tight undershirt hugging the expanse of the boy's chest and back, long legs jiggling out adrenaline through a loose pair of track pants. Easy access, Dennis thought. They'd slink down Dean's narrow hips without protest.

Then Dean leaned forward and pressed the button on the fountain, as he did every morning, gulping loudly in the darkness. Dennis eased himself from his crouched position, standing low, slunk down, as he slunk forward, creeping quietly, stealthily.

There was no need, really. He could hear the tinny blasting of loud music, screeching guitars, obnoxious shrieking voices screaming through the headphones, and he knew then that he could probably snap a dozen twigs, crashing through the bushes like a bull in a china shop, and his prey wouldn't hear him. It was almost too easy.

Taking a deep breath to still the excited tremor that ran through his hands, Dennis reached into his pocket to retrieve the chloroform-soaked rag. He stepped up behind the boy, so close he could almost taste the salt in his sweat, and prepared to grab.

He was completely unprepared for the punch that landed in his gut when the kid suddenly spun and rammed his fist into Dennis's abdomen. He doubled over in pain with a breathless 'oof' and barely had time to sidestep the follow-up punch that grazed his chin. Would have knocked him flat on his ass if it'd made contact. Damn the kid was fast!

Dean was all wild-eyed fury as he took in the sight of his attacker – definitely not the way Dennis had wanted this to go, but if the boy put up a fight beating him down could be its own reward – and he retreated a few paces to take stock of the situation. Dean tore the headphones off his ears and discarded the walkman to the ground; and Dennis watched as those wide eyes narrowed, calculating and appraising. Then there was flinty resolve, the kid's jaw clamped and flexed with determination. A decision made.

For the first time in many years, Dennis feared he had bitten off more than he could chew.

"Come and get it, you fucker!" Dean snarled as he reached with his left hand to unclasp the sling pinning his left hand across his chest.

For a moment Dennis was puzzled, wondering what in the hell the kid hoped to accomplish by freeing his useless, injured arm. But then he watched as the boy danced on the balls of his feet, getting his equilibrium back, settling his balance as he shifted his weight, set his shoulders, prepared his fists for some serious pummelling.

Balance. He needed the right arm free to better use the left.

"Why don't you take off that mask and fight like a fucking man, you dickless coward!"

Somehow, young Dean's rage was endearing, if unsettling. It was clear he'd reached the proverbial end of his rope and was prepared to kick the living shit out of the next person to threaten his newly achieved "safety" here in Phoenix. Dennis couldn't altogether blame him, pathetic though it was. Dean didn't know it yet, but his life was over the moment he set foot into Dennis's hotel room. Every breath he took from that moment onward was merely borrowed. Every breath from that moment onward belonged to Dennis.

He grinned through the mask at the thought, knowing within him that he would steal the last breath, the very breath he _owned_, from the spit-fire, righteously angry, achingly beautiful piece of trash before him. That last breath was his.

He lunged and caught Dean in the shoulder, causing both of them to topple to the ground even as Dean pushed against him, like a linebacker blocking a pass at the twenty yard line. The crash to the ground was loud and undignified, a scrambling mass of limbs and grunts.

The chemical-soaked rag was long gone, lost in the melee, and Dennis had to fight to keep the bucking young athlete still beneath his bulkier weight. It was harder than he'd imagined it would be.

Dean was a fighter and he knew what he was doing. His movements were efficient and precise, well-timed and bone-jarring. Though he was bigger and stronger, Dennis found it almost impossible to pin the boy down. Then a knee came up between his legs and everything went white with the pain blossoming in his groin. Dennis gasped a strangled groan and struck out reflexively, catching Dean hard in the face – hard enough to leave him dazed. The limbs stilled fractionally and Dennis seized the opportunity, catching the right wrist in his left hand and giving it a painful twist.

The boy yelped in pain, his eyes flashing with desperate rage as the agony in his already-sprained wrist brought him back from the fog, focusing his attention back to the attack. Growling, the kid lunged with his hips, causing a momentary flash of pain and pleasure as their groins collided, and then twisted sideways like an eel, upending Dennis and causing him to topple to the side.

Lightening fast, Dean struck out with his right elbow, slamming it into Dennis's solar plexus so hard he almost puked from the impact. Dennis choked for air and raised his fist back to strike the boy again when another lightening jab, this time to his throat, cut off his air completely.

The whole world whitewashed in shattering agony as something in Dennis's throat collapsed. Then darkness came, creeping through the edges of his vision and flooding through him until he could barely see. Through a pinhole of light he watched as young Dean scrabbled away, preparing to strike again, this time with a kick.

That was when Dennis realized that he'd underestimated the boy. He was going to _lose_. He'd come half-cocked, had taken for granted all the Tae Kwon Do and exercise the kid had partaken of all summer. Dean knew how to fight and had clearly kicked his ass. And now Dennis was going to lose and his one chance would be lost forever.

Desperate, he grabbed a fist-sized rock, clutching it in his fist, and lunged again – which was a feat in itself, considering he could barely draw in any air, as though he were sucking in oxygen through a tiny, useless straw. With every last ounce of energy he had, he stumbled to his feet and swatted the well-aimed kick away from his abdomen. It jarred his other hand but there was no time to focus on that. With a strangled, croaked gasp of breath, Dennis slammed the rock into the side of Dean's face.

The kid went down like a stone, still as death.

Dennis allowed himself a hard-earned grin of victory, though it was short-lived. He wasn't getting enough air and he suspected that Dean had broken his windpipe with that sucker-punch jab to the throat. He needed to get to a hospital, and he wasn't sure if he had the strength to drag the now limp boy's body to the car.

The shouting in the distance made up his mind.

"Oh my God!" a man's voice cut through the darkness as a passing jogger took in the sight of Dennis in his ski mask, standing over a still, prone form on the ground. "What the hell are you doing?"

No options left now. Dennis cursed the day he was born and ran. Dean Winchester would have to wait – possibly for a long, long time. The plan would have to be revised, if not abandoned, while Dennis worked on covering his tracks. It was all about damage control, now. Damage control, or he might soon find himself at the mercy of Phoenix PD's sniffing detectives and police dogs because there were dozens of missing boys scattered in bits and pieces across the country with his name on them.

No, Dennis needed to regroup, so Dean Winchester had bought himself a reprieve. For now.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter Notes:**

Well holy good Lord this chapter was hard to write! I know I promised schmoop, but somehow my muse went here instead. I found there were still more loose ends to tie up, and some practical issues I thought that ought to be raised. Suffice it to say, I had a rough time writing this and I think it shows.

Sorry ladies, t'ain't my best, but what can you do, right? It can't all be Pulitzer material. On the plus side, it's super long. I hope this helps to make up for the lack of quality or substance. lol. One can hope, right?

* * *

**Chapter 24**

"What've we got?" Dr. Kane asked as the gurney was pushed toward him. Eckhart and Prynne, the two paramedics on the scene, wheeled the still form of a young teen through the corridor of the ER, firing off stats in rapid fire.

"Young male, approximately fifteen years of age... Mugged in the park. Facial contusions, concussion, pupils non-responsive, possible cranial fracture... BP 140 over 90... Good breath sounds..."

"Has he regained consciousness at all?" Dr. Kane asked, whipping out his stethoscope and pressing the metal to the young boy's chest.

"Opened his eyes briefly in the bus," Prynne said shortly as she whipped a stray lock of sandy hair from her brow and huffed in exhaustion. "Made a few incoherent sounds before losing consciousness again."

Dr. Kane reached into the chest pocket of his scrubs and produced his silver penlight, peeling open the kid's right eye and noticing immediately that the pupil was blown wide. Moving to the left, he gently pried the lid open, being careful of the deep, darkening swelling forming around the eye socket, and noting that the left eye matched the right with the same black pool filling up the green of his eyes.

"All right," Kane said, turning to the team of nurses waiting on his command, as well as the two residents who hovered nearby. "Let's get a head CT. Ray, call Radiology and tell them we've got another one for them. We'll probably need x-rays, too."

He probed gently at the orbital bone, feeling for fractures or tenderness.

"This kid got a parent or guardian? Or a _name_?" Kane asked the paramedics.

"Good Samaritan caught the tail-end of the mugging and called 911," Eckhart shrugged. "No ID."

Curtis Kane heaved a sigh.

"What the hell was this kid doing out at the park at this hour?" he muttered to himself, but taking in the sight of the telltale track pants, tank top, and sporty sneakers, there was no doubt that the boy had been on some kind of early morning run.

They wheeled the boy into Trauma 1 and with practiced efficiency lowered the guardrails on the gurney and transferred him to the trauma bed. Dr. Kane squared his fist and dug his knuckles hard into the boy's sternum, rubbing back and forth with enough force to elicit a painful groan.

"There we go," he coaxed loudly, applying more pressure to rouse the boy. "Come on... Rise and shine, kiddo."

Purpling lids fluttered rapidly, then rose with a paradoxical, languid grace that was so slow it was almost leisurely. Green slits centred with wide black peered blearily at nothing.

"Hey there," Kane called genially. "Open your eyes, kiddo. Come on..."

The kid blinked slowly, dumbly, completely unaware of his surroundings, and opened his dry, split lips to mumble something incoherent.

"I'm Dr. Kane," the doctor said loudly, leaning over the bed to place his face directly in the child's line of sight. "You're in the hospital. Can you tell me your name?"

A tongue peeked out to wet dry lips and those dark eyelids drooped closed lazily.

"No-no!" Kane ordered, driving his knuckles into the kid's chest again. "Stay with me, son. What's your name, huh?"

Green slits peering blearily up, brow furrowing in confusion, or possibly pain, as the boy fought to remain conscious.

"Can you tell us your name?" he repeated, enunciating every word clearly, loudly, in the hopes of breaking through the thick fog enveloping the young teen's head.

The boy groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, paling visibly as his skin went from white to greenish.

"Nancy, can we get a –" but it was too late. The boy lurched and heaved, puking on himself down his shirt front.

"Guh!" the kid moaned, pawing messily at the spittle dribbling from his chin. He made a brave effort to remain sitting up, but it was clear from the pain marring his handsome face, from the quick, panted breaths, from the way his whole body began to tremble, that he just didn't have it in him to hold himself up.

"Easy there, tiger," Nancy soothed, easing the boy down with a firm, sure hand. "Just sit back and we'll get you cleaned up, huh?"

_Thank God for nurses_, Curtis thought.

The nursing team manhandled the boy out of his clothes, swabbing and toweling briskly, without fuss, and within moments the young mugging victim was cleaner and fresher, sporting a pastel Johnny shirt, though he was squinting in pain again, one hand clasping at his right shoulder.

"Did you hurt your shoulder?" the doctor asked.

The boy nodded, breathing deeply through flared nostrils.

"Call radiology – confirm x-rays with Bob."

Carla nodded and pivoted toward the phone, already on it. They really did run a smooth machine.

"You got a name, handsome?" Nancy tried again.

"D'n..." the kid mumbled as he attempted to relax back into the sheets.

"Dean?" she repeated. Another weak nod.

"All right, Dean," Dr. Kane said. "You're in the hospital. You took a pretty bad blow to the head. Can you tell us what happened?"

Confusion warred with pain in those glassy green eyes with the too-wide pupils. Young Dean blinked slowly, sluggishly, his eyes narrowing and then falling at half-mast, as he tried to remember the early morning events that had landed him in the hospital.

"Hs'p'tl?" he slurred, opting to forego vowels, apparently, for the time being.

"That's right," the doctor intoned. "Do you remember what happened?"

The eyes closed and for a moment he thought the boy had fallen unconscious again. But then a pink tongue was teasing its way slowly over parched lips, wetting them languidly.

"M'n 'na mask?" the boy queried, gulping. He raised a trembling hand to the bruised, swollen side of his face and grimaced, groaning in pain, either remembered or present – maybe both.

"D'I ged 'im?"

None of the hospital staff knew what that meant, so no one replied.

"Fucker," the kid grumbled angrily with a huffed sigh as he slipped unconscious again.

888

"That's it. I'm putting your brother on a leash," Mom complained as she tossed the dirty, egg-crusted spatula into the sink with a loud sploshing of water. "Or else I'm getting one of those cat collars with a bell on it so I can hear him when he's coming or going."

Suzie giggled into her glass of milk and rolled her eyes.

"Make up your mind, Mommy," she chided with a smirk that was far too reminiscent of Dean to be good for her. "Is Dean a dog or a cat?"

Mom raised a questioning eyebrow, a challenge and a warning behind it that spoke volumes about how much she was not impressed with Suzie's attitude these days. Sam suspected that maybe Dean wasn't the best influence on their little sister, but he supposed it was bound to happen, considering how much Suzie hero-worshipped the guy. Sarcasm was spreading like a disease through the Wesley household, starting with the youngest and with Dean as patient zero.

"Clean your plate and mind your manners," Mom warned, then peered out the kitchen window for the bazillionth time and worried her lip – _again_. "He should have been back by now," she muttered absently.

Then, turning to face Dad, who was busy at the table reading the morning paper and sipping his coffee, she repeated: "Peter, he should have been back by now."

"Are you going to do this every time he leaves the house?" Dad asked with good humour.

"He's usually back by 7:00 at the latest," Mom pressed. "And I could swear when I heard him leave this morning it was 5:00."

When Dad didn't react with quite the level of surprise she was hoping for, Mom exploded.

"It's 7:30!" she intoned. "That was two and a half hours ago! What is he doing, the Terry Fox run?"

"Would you like me to go look for him?" Dad offered politely as he folded up his newspaper and tucked it under his arm. "Would that make you feel better?"

Mom just glared at him, so Sam figured that Dad was using that tone that Mom said was patronizing.

"Fine," Dad sighed. "But if I don't find him in a ditch he's grounded for a month."

"Don't joke about things like that," Mom warned.

"Who said anything about joking?" Now Dad looked angry too. "Because of this detour I'm going to be late for work, Jane."

"I'll write you a note," Mom snarked, and Sam's eyes widened in shock. Maybe Dean's smart mouth had infected more than just Suzie. Now it looked like Mom was channelling her inner-Dean, too.

Dad folded his arms across his chest and took a few deep breaths. His face was getting kinda red, and Sam thought he looked like he was trying really hard not to look as angry as he obviously felt. It was kind of like watching a balloon trying not to expand. Kinda funny, but not. Cos Dad and Mom were fighting and Dean was at the centre of it. Again.

"I can't imagine where he's gotten off to," Dad admitted. But his voice didn't sound confused or mystified or even like he was pondering possibilities. He sounded... _sarcastic_.

Sam sighed.

"What?" Mom snapped, folding her arms in a similar pose to match Dad's stance.

"Nothing," Dad muttered. "I just wouldn't be surprised to find that he's dipped into somebody's liquor stash and gotten himself three sheets to the wind. After all, it's a Friday. Why not start the weekend early?"

Uh-oh. Even Sam knew that that was the wrong thing to say. He may be only ten, but he knew when Mom had reached her Your-Dad's-Being-an-Idiot threshold. He'd leapt over it and done the Macarena, if the look on Mom's face was any indication.

"Sam, Suzy — go finish getting ready for school," Mom said sternly, never taking her eyes off Dad. When Sam didn't move fast enough, she barked a fierce, "NOW!" and Sam scurried out of the kitchen, but paused near the stairs, crouching low behind the wall so that he could still hear that they were saying.

"I can't believe you!" Mom hissed in a shocked, hurt voice. "After everything we've seen this week, you're actually passing judgment on him?"

"That's not – I didn't," Dad sputtered. "I'm not passing judgment," he said at length. "But you have to admit, Jane, there's a pattern developing here. It's the first week of school and Dean's spent more time out of class than in."

"And you know damned well why that is," Mom growled in a dangerously low voice that made all the hairs on the back of Sam's neck stand on end.

"I do," Dad said calmly, slowly. "Jane, I do. I'm not ever likely to forget it. He's had a rough week. But when things get rough, Dean finds trouble. Drinking, partying, shooting his mouth off."

"He's trying, Peter!"

Sam was glad he couldn't see the look on his Mom's face, because he was pretty sure the mixture of desperation and anger in her voice would be matched and made more poignant through her eyes and the set of her mouth. Seeing his Mom upset was something that shook the solid foundations under his feet, eliciting small tremors through the jip-rock of his being, causing his walls to crack. Moms weren't supposed to get upset.

"I know that," Dad placated again in his calm voice. "I know he is, Jane. But _we_ have to try harder. We have to keep him in line or he's going to run roughshod over us. And we're not going him any favours by letting him lose control like this."

There was a disdainful snort of laughter that sounded like it came from Mom.

"_Like this?_" Mom questioned. "So that's it? You've decided that that's what Dean's doing? He's out there somewhere, getting drunk at 7:30 on a Friday morning?"

Sam could practically hear his father's shrug.

"Probably," he sighed. "Jane, I'm not saying that's what I want him to be doing. And the Lord knows I'd love to be wrong..."

"You _are_ wrong," Mom promised.

"But we have to look at this rationally," Dad went on. "Dean has been through things that you and I can't even imagine. He's had no guidance, no boundaries, no rules, and no one to look after him. And even though he seems to be settling in here, when things get rough he falls back into old patterns, like drinking. Dr. Oxley warned us that that could happen. And with the week he's had, I would almost expect him to go looking for a bottle."

"I'm not listening to this." Sam could hear Mom tossing more things into the sink. "You go ahead and _expect_ whatever you want. _I'm_ going to go look for Dean."

And with that, she stormed out of the kitchen, pausing to give Sam a hard glare as she caught sight of him at the foot of the stairs.

"I wanna help look for Dean!" Sam blurted out without excuse or preamble.

"Upstairs," she said tiredly. "Brush your teeth and make sure your sister does the same."

"But..."

"Please, Sam – just do as I say." She sounded so tired that Sam couldn't find it in him to put up more of a fight. He did want to go look for Dean, but he was almost afraid that he would find his brother stumbling drunk somewhere, and that Dad would be right and Mom would cry. Because Dean did do stupid things like getting drunk – even though he was only fourteen – and so far every time he'd gone missing it was only to be found hours later filled to the brim with booze. He wanted to be mad at Dad for suggesting that that's what Dean was doing now, but a part of him was afraid that Dad was probably right.

"Please, Sam," Mom repeated.

"Okay," Sam offered up.

Mom just heaved a sigh and headed toward the front door before snatching her purse from the hall closet with a jingle of keys and a parting, angry glance in Dad's direction. Sam found himself torn between hoping that his brother was in some kind of real trouble – which would be terrible because it would mean that his brother was hurt or in danger – and hoping that his brother was just drunk again – which would be awful for all the reasons he'd noted earlier. In the end he couldn't decide which one he was hoping for, and that made his stomach twist up in knots.

888

She'd run out of places to look. Every street she passed, every corner she turned, held the crushed, bitter hope of finding Dean, getting thinner and wispier until there was nothing but vaporous disappointment. It permeated the air and clung damp on her skin, cold and clammy and sweaty with dread until it became a tangible thing, a cloak she could drape over herself and drown in. A few times she pulled over on the side of the road and walked restlessly, desperately, along the familiar neighbourhood streets and well-manicured lawns, calling his name as dread crept up her spine and brought tears to her eyes.

The moment felt... momentous. She was the mother in the crowded shopping mall who 'turned away just for a second' to find her toddler missing. It was the same cold, bone-chilling fear freezing her guts, making her hands tremble. It was the same heavy weight of responsibility and failure, of worry and grief.

There was no doubt about it: something was wrong. Jane knew that something was wrong. She'd known it the moment she went down to make breakfast only to discover that Dean hadn't yet returned from his morning run. The unease had sat heavily upon her then, but she'd rationalized it away. She'd slipped into her routine and watched the clock, waiting for Dean to come strolling through the door, sweat-drenched and eager to fill the bottomless pit that was his stomach, and proving her instincts and intuitions to be nothing more than the hysterical paranoia of a mother-hen mom. But he hadn't come home, and the minutes had ticked by and her unease grew into full-on dread and _she knew something was wrong_.

He could be anywhere, Jane realized. He'd been gone for hours and in that time anything could have happened to him. He could have been hit by a car as he ran through the still darkness of early morning – some hideous hit-and-run that left him broken and bleeding. He could have been kidnapped or murdered, snatched up by some pervert (as her mind was now prone to conjuring lecherous men on every street corner, behind every kind smile, and in just about every scenario she could think of that involved Dean). As each street block yielded no sign of Dean, Jane's desperation grew exponentially, leaving her shaking like a leaf and sputtering with frustrated tears.

Her husband's voice calling to her through the fog of despair was like a balmy wind. She turned around with a startled gasp, saw Peter's worried face peering out at her through the open window of the new company car, as he called her name again and eased the vehicle to the side of the road to pull over. She would have wept with relief at the sight of him if she weren't already weeping and weren't well past the point of hysteria.

He was quick getting out of the car and within moments his arms were around her, pulling her close and cradling her to his chest.

"Shhhh," he soothed. "We'll find him. Don't cry, sweetheart. We'll find him."

"He's been gone for hours!" she sobbed. "I've looked everywhere and called for him 'til my voice went hoarse!"

"I'm sorry," Peter whispered softly as he ran his hands up and down her back as if to warm her from the chill within. "I should have listened to you this morning."

Jane sniffed and peered up to meet her husband's sad, strained eyes.

"Where are the kids?" she asked.

"I dropped them off at school." He shrugged and gave her a tight squeeze. "I figured we'd have a better time finding Dean without the added distraction of those two little munchkins slowing us down."

"Peter, if something's happened to him..."

"We'll find him," he assured her, cutting her off with a gentle shake and another tight squeeze. "We'll find him."

They didn't find him. Forty-five minutes of scouring the neighbourhood, alternating between calling for him and occasionally knocking on doors to see if anyone had seen or heard anything, and there was still no sign of Dean. Jane began to fear the worst, though Peter remained determinedly optimistic.

"God will lead us to him," he promised with bright eyes. "He led us to him in New York – we were meant to be a family. God will lead us to him again."

Jane wasn't so sure. She wanted to believe: she prayed and hoped and begged for God to show them some kind of sign, to lead them in the direction of the boy who'd wormed his way into their hearts, the boy who needed them as much as they needed him. She was at the end of her rope here. Dean needed her – needed her and Peter – to be for him what no one else could be. He needed loving arms, safe walls to call home, and family to hold him tight and never let go. Tough and self-sufficient as he was, he needed protecting and coddling and mothering. He needed them to take care of him, and he needed them _now_.

"Wouldn't have believed it..." a shocked voice carried on the wind, breaking her away from her thoughts. "And in this neighbourhood, of all places..."

Two little bitty old ladies were huddled together on a nearby park bench, deeply engrossed in their daily dose of morning gossip.

"And you say it happened in the park?" one of the ladies queried.

"Right over there!" the other replied, pointing a liver-spotted finger in the direction of the open field not far away, across from the swings.

"Goodness!" the first whispered as she laid a hand across her chest to stem the inevitable heart attack battering her weathered, old heart.

"I'm sure the police only left an hour ago," the second bitty intoned. "I watched them scouring the park with their police dogs but by then the attacker was long gone."

And there it was.

"Excuse me, did you say attacker?" Peter asked urgently, already on the move. His mind was sharper than hers, obviously, because he hadn't been hysterical and crying and breaking apart at the seams.

Both ladies startled at the sudden intrusion, but the look on Peter's face must have been enough to induce them to be forthcoming with whatever information they had.

"Why yes," the second lady said in the same shocked, brittle voice she'd employed throughout the entirety of their conversation. "I was just telling my dear friend June here – a boy was attacked in the park this morning."

Jane's mouth went so dry she had to fight the urge to gag and her head swam with sudden dizziness.

"Did you—do you know what happened?" Jane croaked. "Is the boy okay? Did...?"

_Oh God_, she couldn't bear to think of it. A young boy attacked during an early morning run through the park... It was the perfect set-up for a rape, wasn't it? Shut away from all predatory sounds with those damned headphones plugging up his ears, blocked from prying yes with the cover of darkness, safe from detection because of the early, early hour. So many times the world slept on while monsters had their way with unsuspecting early-morning joggers. It was a tale so often told, and one she'd heard many times back at the church rescue mission. And now it appeared it had happened to Dean.

She threw up in her throat and swallowed it back with a gag and a gasp.

"Well I didn't see any of it myself," the lady replied thoughtfully. "But that kind, young man who came upon the attack chased the man off and then came to my door to use my phone to call an ambulance."

"Oh God, Dean..." Jane moaned piteously.

"So the attack was interrupted?" Peter pressed, his voice still urgent but oddly calm. "Was the boy okay?"

The lady shook her head.

"They took him away in an ambulance," she replied helplessly. "He was unconscious – poor thing! Took a nasty hit to the head, by the looks of things."

"Oh goodness!" the other lady, June, exclaimed. "How shocking!"

"And the attacker?" Peter all but demanded. "You said the police didn't catch him?"

Both ladies shook their heads no.

"He was long gone by the time the police and ambulance showed up. I'm sorry."

Jane and Peter didn't wait to hear more in their rush to get to the hospital.

888

He was doing this all wrong and he knew it. The thought terrified him. All his life, Peter Wesley had traveled a well-thought-out path, always with a plan, always with a clear destination in sight. Falling in love with Jane had been so easy, like breathing. Starting a life with her had been so right that there was never any doubt. Being a father, though challenging, was like fitting into a well-worn, perfectly moulded-to-his-hands pair of leather gloves. Everything fit. Everything was as it was meant to be.

But Dean Winchester forced him to re-evaluate everything he'd ever thought he'd known about himself, because Dean Winchester was a challenge. Not only that, Dean Winchester's problems were challen_ging_. He was a hard boy to love, though when you did love him it was so deeply it left an ache, bittersweet and swelling, throbbing.

Jane had fallen first, as Peter had known she would. She was a soft, kind soul, in spite of her no-fuss, no-muss approach to life. So it was natural that she came to love the boy who was, after all, Sam's biological brother.

But falling, for Peter, had been a bit like stumbling through jagged rocks into a babbling stream. It was full of noise and chaos and the startling sensation of tripping and trying to catch himself, stumbling, stubbing his toe, and landing with a plunk to find himself surprisingly wet and sore.

That was loving Dean. And he did. God save him, he loved Dean. That boy was everything a man could want in a son (minus, of course, the prostitution): he was loyal, obedient, hard-working, kind, and so doggedly determined that he would work himself to the bone to accomplish the tasks set before him. What father wouldn't be proud of that? But the ache and pain came from knowing that Peter wasn't Dean's father, and that nothing he did would ever make him come close to filling that position when the real legend of John Winchester loomed large in the child's memory.

So Peter was a shadow. He filled a role, painfully aware that he was Dean's foster-parent and nothing more. And while Jane got to hug and coddle him with minimal grumbling protests (because really, Dean had lost his mother too early not to physically crave everything Jane had to offer), Peter was forced to sit on the sidelines and satisfy himself with being 'the provider' in Dean's world, if nothing else. And even in that capacity Peter felt he had, thus far, failed spectacularly.

Under his roof, under his supervision and care, the boy had already managed to reach levels of intoxication that would put grown men in the hospital with liver failure. The boy had been injured by his own careless hand when he'd dislocated his shoulder after the 4th of July debacle – something he'd never forgive himself for until the day he died. Dean had nearly killed himself rescuing that little girl in California; and that too was on Peter's conscience, because he hadn't even considered vaulting over the side of the bridge to save the drowning toddler, whereas Dean's inner-hero had propelled him to action without any prompting necessary. And then of course there was Walter Cunningham. Though he couldn't have foreseen that the respected headmaster was a closeted pervert who shared a history with his new foster-son, Peter couldn't help but shoulder the blame for it. He'd been the one to register both his sons at that school, with that monster, after all.

And now this. Words could not possibly express the guilt eating away at him for allowing this to happen. There had always been a part of him that protested Dean's obsessive exercise regime. He didn't think it was healthy, and he was certain that the 5:00 a.m. runs weren't safe. But every time he thought of voicing his concerns, he'd see John Winchester's worn, stern face looking at him disdainfully and he'd hear that gravelly voice chiding, _"Dean's strong. He can handle it! You promised you'd let him train so he'd be strong enough for what's to come!"_ And just like that, all of his protests would die like ashes on his tongue. But the plain fact of the matter was that Dean was fourteen years old and no matter how tough he was, it wasn't safe for him to go on marathon runs at such an early hour that the rest of the world was still asleep.

The fact that Dean was in the hospital now, severely concussed and getting treatment in the PICU was proof enough of that.

But the worst of it was that Peter had had very uncharitable thoughts while the child he professed to love was probably in the middle of a round of CPR from having his head bashed in by a mugger in a ski mask. Peter could hear his own condemning words from earlier that morning running in surround sound through his head.

'_I just wouldn't be surprised to find that he's dipped into somebody's liquor stash and gotten himself three sheets to the wind. After all, it's a Friday. Why not start the weekend early?'_

Had he really said that? Had he really thought that? What kind of pathetic excuse for a father was he, that his first thought when one of his kids goes missing was to assume that the boy had gotten himself into trouble? That was precisely the kind of attitude that led Dean to internalize everything. It was no small wonder that, when something bad happened to Dean he automatically assumed he'd brought it on himself, had somehow invited it or asked for it. Peter had been so shocked and saddened to hear Dean acknowledge that it was his own fault that the Headmaster had forced him to perform oral sex on him. Now he thought he understood why.

"I don't understand what's taking them so long," Jane griped distractedly at his side. "We're his legal guardians. There's no reason we shouldn't be allowed to see him."

Peter didn't dare verbalize that they were probably being kept away because Dean was in some very serious physical distress. He'd heard the doctor saying something about swelling and the neurosurgeon being on standby. He swallowed thickly and tried not to think about even the possibility of them opening Dean's head to operate on his brain. It was too much. Just too much.

So he didn't say anything at all, but merely offered an encouraging squeeze to his wife's hand, hoping that it would be enough. In his heart he offered up a litany of desperate, heart-felt prayers. God had always been the light in his life when the darkness of the world encroached too closely. God had always seen him through, had blessed him with Jane and Suzie and Sam. And now God had hand-delivered Dean and Peter had to believe that the Lord wouldn't snatch such a beautiful boy away so needlessly. Dean was a light in their lives, even if he carried dark shadows behind him.

So he prayed fervently and allowed his faith to carry him through those tense, pain-filled moments of waiting, his wife at his side, as time seemed to stretch on forever in the crowded waiting room of the hospital's Paediatric Intensive Care Unit.

"Mr. and Mrs. Wesley?" a voice called through the hum of voices. Both Peter and Jane snapped to immediate attention, standing in unison to greet the youngish-looking doctor as he made his way towards the waiting parents.

"I'm Dr. Kane," the doctor said solemnly. "I was the attending physician when Dean was brought in this morning."

"How is he?" Jane demanded in an urgent whisper. "Can we see him now?"

While the doctor schooled his face into a mask of calm, Peter was able to observe two things: 1) the doctor was about to deliver bad news; and 2) he wasn't alone. A middle-aged woman in an outdated pantsuit and two accompanying police officers flanked the physician like some kind of bizarre, mismatched hospital posse.

"We would actually like to ask you a few questions first," the doctor hedged, casting an awkward glance towards the woman who, upon closer inspection, had the words Social Worker written all over her, from her slightly harried look to the determined set of her jaw and the square rigidity of her shoulders.

Peter knew, without having to be told, that these people thought they were abusing Dean.

888

"I don't understand," Jane protested dumbly, too shocked by the accusation to appear anything other than dumbfounded. "He was mugged. There was a witness who saw the attacker in a ski mask... How can you possibly think that we could have had something to do with Dean's injuries?"

And really, she had a point. The police were investigating the attack, weren't they? Why would they even think to suggest that Peter and Jane were abusing Dean when they knew that someone else was behind this? It simply didn't make any sense.

"Dean has other injuries," the doctor said calmly, bracingly, with only a hint of accusation in his voice. "Older injuries." He seemed hopeful that his patient's foster parents would have some kind of reasonable explanation for these other, non-mugging-related injuries.

"A broken collar bone," Dr. Kane prodded. "A sprained wrist. Dislocated shoulder."

Peter's mouth felt suddenly dry. He wasn't abusing Dean – he wasn't – but the accusation, the mere implication, was so horrible that it made his throat feel tight, his skin prickling with unease. One misspoken word could paint him as a villain here, could make him look too defensive, too edgy, too quick to offer up excuses.

"We went to Long Beach this summer," Jane supplied for him. "When we were there, Dean jumped off a bridge to save a little girl from drowning. The impact – it nearly killed him."

"And that's how he did all that damage to his right side?" the social worker asked. She stepped forward and offered a brusque introduction. "I'm Marilyn Orr. I'm with Child Protective Services."

Jane paled.

"Look," the woman said. "I'm not going to mince words here. Dean is in rough shape. The beating he took this morning was enough to get us involved – standard procedure for kids in the system. We like to check in every few months anyway, but things got a little hectic this summer and Dean's file kind of fell through the cracks."

"Shocking," Jane muttered darkly.

Peter laid a hand on her shoulder in warning, willing her to hold her tongue, but it was too late for that. Marilyn Orr's eyes narrowed angrily.

"Excuse me?" she asked, clearly affronted.

"Never mind," Jane huffed. "Now's not the time for that."

"When can we see Dean?" Peter asked, hoping to steer the conversation away from the confrontation building between his wife and the social worker.

"That will be determined after I've made my report," Orr replied. "Until we can get this sorted out, Dean will be in our custody."

"Nononono!" Jane said urgently. "You can't do this! You can't take Dean away – it'll destroy him!"

"You can check his medical records!" Peter offered desperately. "I'll have our family doctor forward his files from the office downtown. And you can check with the hospital near Long Beach where he was treated!"

"Please," Peter went on. "It's all documented. We've not been abusing Dean – we would never do that!"

The doctor took this as a good moment to intercede, stepping between the distraught parents and the stubborn social worker to offer some calming, reassuring words to help diffuse the situation.

"We all want the same thing here," he placated. "We're looking out for Dean, to do what's best for Dean."

"Putting Dean in a group home or with some strange foster family isn't what's best for him!" Jane insisted. "It will _break_ him!"

"It would only be temporary," Ms. Orr assured them, calming somewhat. "Just for the duration of the investigation. If everything's as you say, this can all be sorted out by Monday – Tuesday at the latest."

Tuesday at the latest. Four days. Four days without Dean, four days for Dean to suffer through the pain and indignity of being ripped from his home, from his family, to be placed in the care of strangers. Four days for him to worry about inappropriate touches and lingering looks. It would be four days too many.

"Please, there has to be some other way," Peter pleaded. "My son – Dean's brother – if you separate them... Please, just _please_... Don't separate them."

_Not again. Not like we did_, he thought.

"I'll do what I can," the woman conceded tiredly, reluctantly. "But I've got to be honest here. It doesn't look good."

"Is he okay?" Jane asked. They still hadn't answered that question. "Please, can I see him? I need to see him."

"Dean has a severe concussion," Dr. Kane intoned in his most serious, quiet, calming voice. "We're concerned by the level of swelling on the brain and have him in the ICU under close observation."

"And there's a brain surgeon on standby?" Peter pressed nervously. "Earlier, you mentioned there was a surgeon...? That he might need surgery?"

"We're hoping it won't come to that," the doctor admitted. "The swelling might go down on its own. But it is a possibility."

"Can I see him?" Jane pushed.

"I'm afraid we can't allow that at this time." Marilyn Orr was shaking her head sadly, as if her hands were completely tied, as if it weren't entirely up to her whether or not he and Jane were allowed admittance to their foster-son's room.

"Not even a supervised visit?" Peter asked. "You could come with us, accompanied by one of these officers here. Surely there would be no danger to Dean..."

It took a great deal of begging and wheedling and rationalizing, but eventually the CPS worker relented. Jane wouldn't have given up until they admitted her to Dean's room, regardless of what the social worker said, so it was really only a matter of time before the woman caved.

But before either of them would be allowed to actually see Dean, there were things that the police, doctor, and social worker wanted straightening out first. They learned a few very alarming facts from the attending officers and from Ms. Marilyn Orr. It appeared that Dean had put up quite a fight with his attacker, earning him bruised knuckles to go with the spectacular bruising on his face from where the mugger had hit him with a rock. There were, thankfully, no signs of sexual assault, as it appeared the attack was interrupted when another jogger happened upon the scene. The witness who called 911 said he heard the attacker wheezing painfully as he ran off, which matched the account Dean had given to police of having caught the man in the throat with a crushing jab. Peter found himself hoping the man was out there somewhere, choking for air for what he'd done, or attempted to do, to Dean.

Aside from some nasty bruising to his face, Dean's only real injury from the assault was the concussion. He'd fought back and somehow managed to keep the attacker at bay long enough for help to arrive. Peter was so relieved, suddenly grateful to John Winchester for insisting that his eldest be military combat trained.

The CPS woman did wonder how it was that a fourteen year-old boy had been able to fend off an attack, as did the investigating police officers, but those concerns were overshadowed by other, more pressing matters. The fact that Dean was ambitious enough to go for daily early-morning runs, for example, did more than raise eyebrows. In fact, Dean's exercise regime was severe enough, in Dr. Kane's opinion, to warrant a psych consult.

"I don't need to tell you that Dean is physically fit," the doctor explained. "Anyone looking at him can see that he has the body of an athlete."

Peter and Jane both nodded, clearly puzzled as to where this particular topic of discussion was leading.

"But I'm alarmed at his level of dedication to his fitness regime," Kane confessed. "His body fat percentage is way below normal, even for someone his age. And I've never seen that kind of muscle definition on someone that young when they weren't taking steroids. To say that his rigorous schedule is extreme would be an understatement."

It took a moment for the doctor's words to sink in.

"Are you... Are you saying that Dean is too fit?" Peter queried through squinted eyes, his eyebrows driving up into his hairline.

It was as though they were fishing for things to hold against them. They couldn't prove irrefutable evidence of abuse, so they were looking now for proof of neglect? Peter was beginning to understand why Dean was so distrustful of authority figures, especially ones associated with the police and social services.

"We think he may have taken his athleticism to an unhealthy level," Dr. Kane explained patiently. "It's normal for kids who've had upbringings as disjointed and disrupted as the one he's had. Controlling the body becomes a means of controlling the chaos in the child's life."

Another moment of stunned silence as both Peter and Jane processed this information.

"Wait a minute," Jane said bracingly. "Are you saying that Dean is... Are you saying he's anorexic?"

"Not quite," Dr. Kane admitted. "In Dean's case, we call it activity neurosis. The pathology is similar, though it manifests in different ways."

"Well that's just ridiculous!" Jane blurted. "Dean isn't activity-whatever. Neurotic... Neuroses. He's just... he's very driven."

Peter wasn't so sure, though. Now that he thought about it, a great deal of Dean's time was spent doing some kind of physical activity. Daily runs in the mornings that lasted an hour, sometimes two. Tae Kwon Do twice a week. An hour of running laps in the pool every day. Frisbee in the park with Angela on the weekends, baseball with Sam on Sundays... And that didn't include the daily reps of push-ups, crunches, squats and other activities he squeezed in before bed time almost nightly.

"Besides, he eats like a horse!" Jane continued. "Just because he has a lot of energy and wants to be fit... Can't fault him for wanting to be in shape..."

Peter smelled denial, and though he wanted to support his wife in her attempts to quash those ideas before they took flight and became true, he knew that there was probably some truth behind it. So instead of agreeing with his wife and emphatically denying that Dean might have a problem, Peter sought some kind of compromise.

"If you think it's something we need to be worried about, then by all means we'll bring it up with Dean's therapist at next Thursday's session."

That stopped everyone short, eliciting a surprised but pleased smile from the CPS woman.

"Dean is seeing a therapist, is he?" she queried hopefully.

Peter nodded heavily, squeezing his wife to feel her solid presence against him, needing the feel of her frame beneath his hands to ground him in place so he could make it through this damnable conversation so they could just _go see Dean!_

"We thought it would be best," he explained sombrely. "Dr. Kane, as I'm sure you've seen from Dean's x-rays, that boy has suffered a lot of abuse in his young life. When he came to live with us this past May, we felt it would be beneficial to him to have a strong, competent support network. He goes bi-weekly to Dr. Oxley for counselling sessions and has been since he first came to stay with us. We think they've been really helpful in getting him to open up."

It was mostly true. As much as Dean dug his heels in with the therapy sessions, they did seem to be having a positive effect on him. He seemed better able to deal with his fears and anxieties, most of the time. And in general he was more at ease, as though he had finally learned to trust his new family.

"We would never hurt him," Jane swore in a garbled voice thick with unshed tears. "We would never, never hurt him."

"So if you think that this activity neurosis is something we need to be concerned about, then by all means, advise us," Peter went on. "We'll do whatever it takes to ensure that Dean's getting the care that he needs. But in the meantime... _please_..."

"We just need to see him," Jane whispered on a choked sob.

Even Marilyn Orr couldn't argue with that kind of pleading.

888

His head felt funny. Too big and too hot. Stuffed with cotton. He blinked and time skipped and jumped; one minute he was in a room buzzing with doctors and nurses and orderlies and someone driving their knuckles into his chest demanding, 'Can you tell us your name, son?' and the next he was alone in the quiet white of antiseptic clean and crisp, white sheets. Another blink revealed him hunched over the side of his bed, vomiting noisily into a bedpan that some faceless nurse held under his chin as she patted his back soothingly and cooed, 'There there.'

It was hard to stay awake. His eyelids were so heavy and his body was like a string tethered to the floating balloon that was his head. He hissed at the bone-deep ache in his wrist as a ham-fisted nurse botched some kind of 'needle aspiration' in his wrist, driving the medieval needle tip into the underside of his wrist and twisting it painfully, futilely, in an attempt to get a good line in the vein. He thought maybe he puked again after that, but the blinking fast-forward thing happened and the next conscious thought he had involved Jane's dewy-eyed face smiling at him through a curtain of tears and _oh crap!_ He'd made her cry!

"'m sorry," he murmured through his swollen lips and damn when had he split his lip? Talking freakin' hurt!

Jane laughed in a kind of breathless sob and wiped at the wispy hairs on his temple. It felt so nice he leaned into the touch, hoping that maybe if she kept her hand there the rubber head on his shoulders wouldn't float away like one of Nena's 99 red balloons. She ran her thumb along his forehead, brushing back and forth, and he just closed his eyes for a second.

"-elling coming down," a voice immediately on his right was saying. "If things continue this way, we'll be moving him from the ICU to a regular room within the next couple of hours."

Awesome. Dean grinned and opened his eyes to see that everyone in the room had shifted. Jane was on his left, clutching his left hand in hers and rubbing her fingers distractedly along the bones of his knuckles, as though tracing them to memorize them, plotting out the roadmap of his metacarpals or whatever the hell they were called. Peter was sitting at the foot of the bed with his head down, his elbows resting on the bed between Dean's feet. He looked exhausted, though Dean thought his head was bowed in relief.

"D'I give you guys a scare?" Dean asked in a voice that wasn't nearly as loud as he'd planned it to be.

Peter's head shot up, his face the most perfect mask of shocked disbelief and relief – definitely relief – that Dean had ever seen.

"Hey, kiddo," he said. _Just like Dad_. "You're awake."

"Head feels funny," Dean mumbled, because it really did.

"We'll get the doctor," Jane whispered as she squeezed his hand gently.

He might have blinked and lost time again, because Peter was gone when he looked up again and Jane had moved to the other side of the bed.

"Sleep now," she whispered. "We're not going anywhere."

And that sounded pretty okay to Dean, so he yawned hugely and sank into the crappy mattress beneath him and melted into it.

888

When he opened his eyes again it was to find himself in a world decidedly more connected with his body than the last one. His head still felt all stuffed full of cotton, but there was more pain now than before. The pain kept him aware, kept him grounded in his body so he wouldn't float away again. The pain was good.

"Sam?" he croaked through parched lips. "Sammy?"

It was important that he find his brother. Dad had charged him with looking after Sammy and Dean was determined to do it right this time. Because he'd gotten separated from him before, had gotten lost, and now they were back together again he was bound he wouldn't make the same mistakes again. He wasn't ever going to make those mistakes again.

"Sam?"

"Shhhh," Jane's voice soothed close to his ear. "Sam's on his way. Just relax."

"S'mmy's comin'?"

He watched through blurry eyes as she nodded a yes.

"That's right," she promised. "Peter went to get him and Suzie so they can come visit you now that you've got your own room."

"M'own room?" Now that was confusing. Didn't he already have his own room? He was sure he did. It had an en-suite bathroom and was painfully close to Jane and Peter's – which meant sneaking girls in to have sex in there was a complete bust.

"Yeah, we figured it was time to get you out of that PICU."

Dean's brow scrunched in confusion, which caused flowers of pain to blossom behind his eyes. He gasped and swallowed back the bile rising in his throat.

"Thought I... had a... TV," he panted.

"Yeah, sweetie, you do," Jane cooed. "At home. But it might be a few days yet before they release you so we thought, in the meantime..."

She trailed off and waved her hand in the general direction of a tiny, blurry little box hanging from the ceiling near the foot of Dean's bed. It looked like it was attached on a metallic, swivel arm kind of contraption, which Dean realized belatedly was a newfangled TV stand.

Aw crap! He was in the hospital.

"Wha' happened?" he slurred. Everything was fuzzy: his vision, his memories, his sense of time and space.

"You got jumped yesterday in the park," Jane whispered quietly. "During your morning run."

"Yesterday?" _Huh_. This must have been the worst head injury he'd had in a long time, considering he'd lost a whole day to concussive fever. But now that he thought back on it, he did remember a dark shadow looming behind him, the cool smell of ozone in the air and the white frosting breath fogging in smoky tendrils from his mouth as Walter Cunningham's fucking ghost warned him about the thing about to attack him.

"Guy in a ski mask?"

Jane nodded again and swallowed deeply, as if she'd accidentally choked on an apple or something and needed to force it down with a few really deep gulps.

"D'I get him?"

"We think so," Jane chuckled. "The man who saw the tail end of the attack said the mugger was wheezing pretty loudly when he ran off, as though he could barely get any air in."

Well that was something at least. Dean allowed a dopey smile to steal its way across his features as he contemplated the small victory.

"Good," he murmured, deepening his grin. "I hope he's breathin' through a straw." Then, thinking better of it: "The police catch him?"

"I'm sorry, no," Jane confessed sadly. "They're looking into a few leads, but so far they don't have any suspects."

Well that was just _peachy_. The creepy fucking mugger from the park got away and the police hadn't caught him. _Damn and double damn!_

"Dean..." Jane's voice was hesitant. "Can I ask you something?"

His insides roiled at the nervous tremor in her voice. When people started questions with 'Can I ask you something?' they were usually asking something pretty serious. He was suddenly very afraid of whatever words were about to spill forth from her mouth. It made his head spin and pound heavily against his skull.

"Sure," he tried for casual, shrugging for good measure.

"Are you...?" She cleared her throat and averted her eyes to the plain white blankets covering Dean's lap. "Do you...? Do you _want_ to live with us?"

It wasn't what he was expecting, and he wasn't really sure what the question meant. He was afraid, deeply afraid, that this incident with the mugging at the park was the straw that had broken the camel's back. Maybe Jane was just plain fed up and wanted rid of him now. Maybe he was just too much damned trouble to be worth the effort.

That was probably it.

His throat felt dry, his head pounding furiously in brain-pulsing thuds in perfect time with his racing pulse. This was it. She was asking for a way out – wanted him to tell her he hated it there so she wouldn't feel guilty for sending him off to be someone else's problem. He knew it. He fucking knew it!

"I..." he croaked through the constriction in his throat. "I-don' know..."

He should just tell her he hated her and wanted to be left the fuck alone. He should tell her she and Peter were assholes and he wished they'd both go to Hell. He should tell her what she wants to hear, give her the green light to kick him to the fucking curb...

But he couldn't. His eyes stung and his throat was so tight it fucking hurt, throbbed, and his face was crumbling before he knew it.

"I-I don't.... I can't..." It hurt to breathe, his chest hitching on the inhale in triplet. "I c-can't..."

Then Jane's hands were everywhere, in his hair, running soothingly along his cheeks, thumbs brushing away the tears, her voice in his ear, her words whispered breaths in a soothing litany of, 'Easy, baby. Easy. You're not going anywhere.'

He was so confused, and his head hurt so bad now that he'd gotten all riled up, and he couldn't stop fucking _crying_ all of a sudden. Stupid concussion had him all turned around and defenceless and vulnerable.

"It's okay," Jane whispered, petting his head like Mom used to do when he had a nightmare. "Dean, it's okay. I'm sorry – I didn't mean to upset you."

"You w-want... me... t-to go?" Dean gasped as he near-hyperventilated.

He watched as Jane's soft eyes squinted in confusion and then widened in stunned shock.

"NO!" she insisted, her own eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Good God, no! How could you even think that?"

Dean didn't have an answer to that. He'd thought... He'd thought she wanted him to go, because she'd asked, right? He was so confused he couldn't rightly remember.

"I-I thought..."

"I'm just so worried about you, Dean." Jane's eyes looked deeper than he'd ever seen them, stretching back to fathomless depths, bleeding love and pain and understanding. And she looked so damned tired it made him ache with guilt; because it was his fault.

"I just want to make sure that we're doing what's best for _you_," she whispered, her thumb stroking his temple. "I want to know that we're making you happy." She smiled sadly, her head tilting to the side to look at him better. "Are you happy?" she asked. "With us?"

Dean nodded, gulping past the panic, gulping down the hitching breaths.

"And you wouldn't rather be living somewhere else?" she pressed.

He shook his head no, unable to even offer up platitudes about how he wanted to stay if they wanted him to stay. He was past that, wasn't he? He'd fucking beg them to stay – they didn't even have to love him.

"Good," she said soundly. "Good."

He wanted to ask why she'd asked him that, wanted to know what had prompted the sudden worry that he might be better off elsewhere, but he was too tired, and he really wanted to get his raging emotions under control and stop crying before Sammy and Suzie got there. Big brothers weren't supposed to blubber like little girls. It just wasn't done.

"We love you, Dean."

It was a simple, declarative statement. Four words. Four syllables. Spoken in Jane's soft, lilting voice, in combination with her gentle fingers stroking his hair, they were his undoing. He bawled like a baby.

888

He hated hospitals. They were always too cold, too clean, too white and quiet and creepy. People _died_ in hospitals. People got sick in hospitals, bled in hospitals, got cut open and operated on in hospitals. In short, Sam thought they were downright terrifying.

And now his big brother was trussed up in one. His palms were so sweaty he thought for sure it must be a sign of impending illness or something, but Dad kept telling him it was normal to be nervous so he tried to ignore hypochondriatic thoughts for the time being. Dean needed him. And since Suzie wasn't flipping out (and she was only seven – almost eight), Sam knew he couldn't flip out either.

"Before we go in there, there are some things you need to know," Dad explained as they paused outside of the door to what must be Dean's room. "When you see Dean, it's going to be a bit of a shock, okay?"

Both Sam and Suzie nodded solemnly.

"You said he was okay," Suzie pouted accusingly.

"He is," Dad promised, crouching low to look them both in the eye in turn. "But he got banged up pretty bad. There's a lot of bruising on his face and when you first see it it's kind of... well, it's pretty scary at first, okay?"

Again, they both nodded.

"He hit his head really hard, too, so he's a bit confused. No loud noises, okay? Keep your voices down, and make sure not to jostle him or do anything that would make his headache worse, okay?"

"Like when Mommy gets her migraines?" Suzie asked. Sam was silently grateful that his sister was such a nosy freak, because his throat felt way too dry to form words for all the questions he wanted to ask.

"That's right," Dad said. "Just like that. Except... Well, if he acts strange, try not to get freaked out by it, okay?"

Well that didn't sound good.

"Strange?" Sam dared ask. "Strange, like, how?"

"If he asks you the same question more than once," Dad said with a shrug. "If he forgets things you think he ought to know. If he, uh... cries a little bit."

"Is he sad 'cos he got beat up?" Suzie asked timidly, her shiny, pink bottom lip trembling.

Dad sighed and petted her shoulder.

"Yeah, sweetie, he is."

And with that admission laying heavily in their hearts, Dad pushed through the door and they all made their way into Dean's room.

Sam gasped.

Dean's skin was as white as the sheets tucked around him, so pale he looked almost translucent. The skin around his left eye was swollen and black-blue with bruises, the lid barely opening to a tiny slit beneath all the fluid built up around the eye socket. His lip was split, and there was a scrape on his right cheekbone. There were machines all around him, needles and tubes and IVs and beeps and blinking lights. Sam's knees felt like they were made of jelly and he wanted to run away and banish the image of Dean looking so small and broken before it stuck in his mind and became real.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean grinned tiredly. And Sam knew then that he couldn't leave – could never leave. Dean needed him and he was right where he was supposed to be.

"Hey, jerk."

Dean smirked and rested back against the pillows.

"You should see the other guy," he quipped lightly.

"Did you beat him up real good with your Tae Kwon Do?" Suzie queried as she made her way to the bed and without invitation hefted herself onto it to snuggle against Dean's right side.

"Kicked his ass," Dean boasted, his grin broadening to the almost-dimples he got when he smiled real big.

They sat together, all five of them, chatting and joking around like a real family, and Sam started to feel some of his unease ebb away. He wanted to hug his brother 'til his face turned blue, or maybe kick the crap out of him for scaring him like that, but instead settled for staring at him like he was going to disappear any second and smiling like an idiot whenever he made a lame joke.

At some point in the morning a lady in a suit showed up. She had the harried look of someone who works too many hours and doesn't get paid enough – short, auburn hair tied in a frizzy bun that didn't hold all the strands in place, freckled skin without make-up, and eyes that looked older than they should.

"Looks like a family reunion," the woman said lightly, and Sam didn't fail to notice the way both Mom and Dad stiffened at her approach.

"I have some good news for you," she announced. "I did some digging and it looks like everything's on the up and up. I thought, all things considered, that it would be better to get this all cleared up before Dean gets released."

Sam didn't know what that meant, but he thought maybe Dean might by the way his brother sat up straighter and gave the lady the stink-eye with his good eye.

"Great," he drawled without even a hint of humour. "The geniuses at CPS have figured out that I'm not being abused, have they? You got a team of monkeys workin' around the clock on this one?"

Sam had to stifle a giggle at the gaping fish look on the woman's face as she opened her mouth and struggled for words. Neither Mom nor Dad said a word to admonish him, Sam noticed, which meant she probably had it coming. Sam figured she probably did, if she'd dared accuse Mom and Dad of hurting Dean. They would never hurt Dean. Not ever. He'd do his level best to kick the crap out of anyone who said otherwise.

"I mean, look at them!" Dean went on. "They're so vanilla they make vanilla look spicy. Hell, Peter watches weepy chick movies, for chrissakes!"

Everyone in the room was pretty much shocked stupid, though Dad opened his mouth to say something by way of protest.

"Don't even try to deny it, man," Dean taunted. "I so totally caught you watching 'The Way We Were' the other day."

Dad's face flushed red, and the strange suit-woman's face was already flushed red, but Mom looked happier than she'd been in days, and Suzie was grinning because Dean was grinning, so Sam felt himself relax fractionally. So long as they knew that Dean was meant to be with them, everything would be okay. So long as they knew that no one in their home was hurting him, so long as they didn't take his brother away from him, then Sam was okay.

"Yes... well...," the woman flustered. "I'll leave you all to it, then." She cleared her throat to try to put some power and authority back in her voice. "I'll be checking in in a few weeks to see how things are going."

"That'll be fine," Mom said before turning her attention back on Dean. "And thank you – for putting a rush on your investigation. You don't know what it means, to all of us, to be able to stay together."

Sam had to try very hard to force the cold gripping hands of panic to release their sudden strangle hold on his lungs. So they _had_ been trying to take Dean away. This woman with her stupid suit had tried to prove that Dean was being abused, and was going to take him away while she did her stupid 'investigation'?

Over his dead body.

Sam rushed to Dean's left side, nearly slamming his hip against the bedrails in his attempt to squeeze himself as close to the bed as possible without touching Dean's injured shoulder so that he could flank his brother's unguarded side. Then, with all the ire and disgust his ten year-old face could muster, he turned a hot glare in the social worker's direction and jutted his chin out defiantly.

"You can't take him away!" Sam shouted as he clasped Dean's elbow and shoulder in his small hands, which elicited a pained hiss from his brother. "He's _my_ brother! You just stay the hell away from him!"

"Yeah, stay the hell away!" Suzie parroted, wide-eyed and frightened and pissed as hell at the sudden threat of having her biggest brother taken away.

Mom and Dad both exclaimed shocked apologies before sneaking out of the room with the social worker, no doubt to offer more apologies and excuses for Sam's outburst. He didn't care. He'd gotten the message through loud and clear, and with any luck the stupid bitch wouldn't be coming back.

In the interim, he turned to offer a comforting smile to his big brother, who was smiling bemusedly at Sam.

"You gonna kick her ass for me, Sammy?" he teased.

Sam nodded emphatically. "If I have to."

"Me too!" Suzie chirped. "I'll kick her ass too!"

It was all worth it for the incredulous laugh that broke free from Dean's pursed lips. He looked happy, too, Sam noticed. The tight lines he sometimes saw around Dean's mouth were smoother, like his whole faced was relaxed in spite of the killer headache from nearly having his brains bashed out. And even though he was still white as a sheet and bruised black and blue, his eyes were lit up really green and shining with deep contentment. Sam liked being the one to put that look in his brothers eyes and only wished he could do it more often.

"Did Mom tell you that Grammy Tilny's coming to visit?" he asked.

"Grammy Tilny?" Dean's brow furrowed in confusion. "'Zat Jane's mom?"

"Uh-huh," Suzie replied with an emphatic nod. "She's Mommy's mommy and she's real nice."

"She makes the best pie," Sam added.

"I like her a lot better than Grandma Wesley," Suzie confessed.

"Ooh, and she breeds dogs!" Sam said excitedly.

"And she and Grampy have horses at their ranch!"

Dean was probably getting whiplash from the back and forth exclamations about their favourite grandmother, but he grinned all the same.

"And she can leap over tall buildings in a single bound?" Dean queried, which made Suzie giggle.

"She's awesome," Sam promised. "You'll like her."

Then Dean's grin faltered, ever so slightly, and his eyes dimmed as his lids lowered, his long lashes casting his pale cheeks in sooty shadow.

"Yeah, well... Here's hoping she likes me," he said with a sad little shrug.

But Sam wasn't worried. Grammy Tilny was the nicest, lovingest woman ever, and he'd heard Mom talking on the phone with her and got the distinct impression that Grammy Tilny was excited to meet Dean. He bet she'd spoil him rotten with cookies and pies and her world famous mashed potatoes. Then Dean would know how good it could be to be part of a real family. He couldn't wait for Grammy Tilny to meet Dean.

* * *

**End Notes:**

So there. The perfect set-up for schmoop. A mothering grandmother is on the way for a coddlefest extravaganza! We've got hugs and kisses and puppies and kittens on the horizon! (Okay, maybe not kittens...)

I haven't forgotten about Dennis or the police investigation. That part was left out of this chapter as a matter of necessity, because it'll take time to cover adequately and, as you can see, this chapter is over 11,000 words. So it gets postponed for the time being, albeit deliberately, until its time and place comes up. But I will reveal all (or at least some) of how the man plans to weasel his way out of this one. Plus, we'll be getting a bit of back story on him as well. But the schmoop is long overdue, so schmoop comes first.

Y'all want your schmoop first, right? Should I set up a poll? lol.


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter Notes:**

And here it comes -- a hearty dose of schmoop! This is just the beginning. There are all kinds of good things on the horizon for the next little while, interspersed with some more angst because I'm me and I can't write a chapter without angst. I'm sorry, I guess I'm just hardwired that way!

I hope ya'll like Grammy Tilny. I worry that she comes on a little too strong, but she's the only character in the series that has a RL person inspiring her, so if you think she's over the top then I imagine you'd think the same thing about the person who I've borrowed particular traits from.

Sorry if there are glaring errors. I've been exhausted all week and I wrote this in stops and starts, so it might read as scattered as I felt writing it. I just wanted to get the chapter out to you soon, since you're all so good to me.

* * *

Chapter 25

Today was about surprises. It had been a while – too long, in fact – since she'd spoiled her grandkids, and the lack of contact and subsequent spoiling left her with an itch that desperately needed scratching. It would mean trouble, of course. Rosemary Tilny was nothing if not observant, and she knew that her daughter and son-in-law were rather strict about what they saw as excesses, unnecessary indulgences. They would frown upon her fawning. They would think she was mollycoddling and spoiling their kids.

And to that she thought, 'Well duh!'

Grandkids were meant to be spoiled by their grandmothers. It was a rule, a widely-known and oft-followed rule. Grandparents got to be the sweet-giving, cookie-baking, stuff-a-twenty-in-your-pocket sneaks who over-indulged the wee ones while Mom and Dad were the bad guys. It was the way things worked.

Granted, there were a few surprises that she knew Peter would flat out refuse. They'd been through this before, had had the same arguments before, and his answer had always been a flat, resounding 'No.' But things were different now, and drastic times called for drastic measures. There was Dean to consider now: Dean who she hadn't met, Dean who had landed like a whirlwind into her daughter's life and turned everything upside down, Dean who'd just been mugged and beaten senseless and who'd almost _died_ before Rosemary even got a chance to meet him.

So she decided that Peter could say whatever he liked; Rosemary was going to do what she wanted anyway.

Getting into the house was no difficulty. She still had her key from the time she'd spent with them two summers ago when she broke her ankle and camped out with her daughter's family for a little TLC while she healed. She took a cab from the airport, not wanting to have them fuss over her at the airport, especially with Dean in the hospital and all, and let herself into the empty house to settle her aging bones and just rest a while.

They had a nice house. It was large but comfortable, rich without being garish or ostentatious. It felt lived in and homey, which was more than she could say about the gothic monstrosity that was Abraham and Margaret Wesley's mansion (and it _was_ a mansion, no matter how much Peter tried to deny it). She liked her daughter's simple taste, the soft, understated decor and clean upkeep. Jane knew how to keep house – had learned well from her mother before her.

"All right then," she muttered to herself as she shuffled her ample body off the couch and made her way up the stairs with her luggage dragging heavily behind her. "With all the money these two have, you'd think they could afford a bell hop," she groused jokingly to herself. "Too bad the strapping young man of the house went and got brained in the park," she added ruefully. "What else are teenaged boys good for, if not carrying their grandmothers' luggage?"

It took a moment to catch her breath after the monumental effort of climbing the stairs with her suitcase and handbag, so she allowed herself a few minutes of loud, huffed breathing while her pulse settled to something like a normal rhythm. Old age was excuse enough for allowing oneself to grow flabby and out-of-shape, wasn't it? Best not to dwell on it, she figured.

Everything upstairs was as she remembered it, she noted as she made her way down the hall towards the spare room. A cursory glance into Sam's room revealed that his tastes hadn't changed much. There were more books lining the shelves along the wall than there'd been the last time she was here, and his Ninja Turtles bedspread had been retired in favour of a slightly more mature soccer themed blanket. Suzie's room twinkled with girlish things: Barbies, porcelain dolls, dress-up sparkly shoes and a tiara and wand leaning against the night stand next to her bed. It reflected the daydreams of a little girl in perfect pink hues.

Further down the hall revealed the biggest change, and that being the spare bedroom that was usually hers and Fred's. She'd forgotten that it was Dean's room now, but peeking inside there was no mistaking that it was anyone's room but the fourteen year-old boy's. Bed unmade, socks strewn in bundles on the floor, car magazines spread out on the desk in place of school books, and posters of various rock bands whose lyrics would make Peter Wesley's head positively explode if he took the time to listen to them: Metallica, ACDC, Led Zeppelin, Def Leppard, Alice in Chains (and Rosemary was shocked that they'd allowed him to mount _that_ one).

This was Dean's room. _The_ Dean. The grandson she'd never met but had always wondered about, ever since her daughter and son-in-law took in Sam all those years ago. It felt like a hallowed kind of moment, peering into his living space and getting a sense of his presence without him actually being _present_. This was where he laid his head down at night and drifted off to dreams of things she could only imagine. In this space he watched movies on the big TV – also a new addition – and did his homework and talked on the phone with his friends. And whatever he'd done in the years before that, when Jane and Peter had foolishly decided not to take him in, was a horror show she could only guess at.

It didn't take much to set her off, and true to form, the water works started up with the mere thought of what that poor, lonely boy had been through after being torn apart from his brother. It must have been awful, to be young and afraid and alone like that. Father in prison, brother taken in by a family that didn't want Dean as part of the package. Rejected and terrified and oh so small. She had always wondered about it, and for years had punished her daughter for it by reminding her, constantly, of the little boy she'd left to fate. She'd been against separating the boys from the very start, and had let her disappointment in her daughter's final decision to split them up, keeping only Sam, be clearly known. Kids weren't supposed to be separated like that.

She eased her heavy frame into Dean's room and sat on his bed and allowed herself to cry. Her husband would tease her and call her an old softie, and he was probably right, all things considered. She was crying for a boy she'd never met, who had no real ties to her and would probably think she was a crazy old bat the minute he met her. But none of that changed the fact that that boy was Sam's brother – Sam who she loved as if he'd been born into their family, instead of adopted into it. She loved Sam easily as much as she loved Suzie, her real flesh and blood, and the lack of familial relations did nothing to separate those children from her in her heart. They were her grandkids, plain and simple.

But Dean... Dean was something lost. Jane hadn't had the heart to fill her mother in on much of what had happened to Dean in the years that the boys had been apart, but there were vague allusions to it having been very, very bad. Her daughter's heartbroken sobs through the phone as she blubbered incoherently about infections and rectal tearing were enough to paint a grotesque picture in Rosemary's mind.

Dean had been hurt, recently, and there'd been no one to protect him from it.

So Rosemary cried as she sat on his bed and absorbed the essence of his space and just allowed herself to wallow in pain and regret. It was never her decision to make, she knew. Jane and Peter did what they thought was best for Suzie and Sam, and though Rosemary didn't agree with it, she could at least acknowledge that they'd done it for the best. But that little boy... The little boy who'd lost everything and been sent away to face the unknown all by himself with no one to love him.

She'd thought about Dean a lot over the last five and a half years, and now that the time had finally come to meet him, she found herself feeling a little overwhelmed. In a few short hours she was finally going to meet him. She'd actually get to see his face, shake his hand, or even (she hoped) give him a hug. She'd get to see with her own eyes how much he did or didn't look like Sam. She'd get to hear his voice, make him cookies, and hopefully get to know him, with time, as she knew Sam and Suzie. It sent a thrill through her at the same time as a spike of fear lanced straight through her heart.

What if he didn't like her?

That was how, an hour and a half later, Rosemary Tilny found herself busy in the kitchen with a pie cooling on the stove and a fresh batch of chocolate chip cookies browning in the oven. It was painfully transparent, but she wasn't particularly good at subtlety, and if the old adage that the best way to a man's heart was his stomach was true, then she fully intended to make her new foster-grandson, Dean Winchester, fall into a puddle at her feet. He had a healthy appetite, Jane was always saying. Could eat a horse, she'd been told time and again. Shovelled food into his mouth as though each meal was going to be his last, she'd been made to understand.

So perhaps her culinary skills would make them fast friends. She wasn't above bribery to win affection, as the surprise in the backyard would attest to. And besides, the whole family had had a rough weekend, living off of hospital food and fear for over forty-eight hours. They needed some comfort food to make the aches go away.

She was just finishing washing the last of the dishes when the doorbell rang.

"Oh, shoot!" she huffed as she struggled her way out of the rubber gloves that had suctioned onto her hands with the head and moisture from the sink water.

"Just a minute!" she cried, plunking the gloves into the sink and darting out of the kitchen at a hearty trot. She was too old to run, got winded easily and ended up looking like a beached whale struggling for breath. Not the kind of impression she liked making to people she greeted at her daughter's door.

When she made it to the door at last and pulled it open, it was to come face to face with a spindly, over-grown insect.

"Oh... umm..." The insect shuffled awkwardly on her feet – Rosemary was sure by the long, frizzy brown hair swirling in a violent haze around her head that it was a female of the species – and bit her lip nervously. "Is... is Dean here?"

Hugely magnified eyes peered pathetically at her beneath the thickest bottle glasses she'd ever seen. The poor girl's mouth was a mess of metal, the braces on her teeth making her lips looks oddly placed on her face. She looked puzzled, her eyes darting over Rosemary's shoulder to steal quick glances in that general direction as she no doubt wondered why this strange woman was suddenly answering the door at her friend's house.

'Such a homely child,' Rosemary thought, then chided herself immediately for thinking so uncharitably towards someone she'd just met. But really, the kid wasn't much of a looker. Her presence at her daughter's doorstep sat at odds with what Rosemary had been told about Dean, who she understood to be quite a handsome lad. Probably someone from school dropping off the homework he'd missed on Friday. Unless she was his girlfriend... But again, that seemed unlikely. Maybe Jane had exaggerated her new foster-son's good looks; maybe his was the kind of handsomeness only a mother could appreciate.

"I'm sorry dear," Rosemary said at length. "Dean's not back from the hospital yet, but they should be arriving this afternoon. Did you want me to let him know you stopped by?"

The insect girl's eyes grew impossibly wider, and then welled up with tears. The colour leeched from her face as she processed this news, and Rosemary realized belatedly that insect-girl was clearly out of the loop regarding recent Wesley events.

"Hospital?" the girl croaked, lip trembling precariously. "Dean's in the hospital?"

"But he's getting out today," Rosemary offered up with a placating smile. "I can let him know you were here...?" She waited for the girl to offer up her name.

"Angela," the kid said, her voice hushed. "I... Can you tell Dean...? Oh God, is he _okay?_"

"Hi Angela," Rosemary smiled. "I'm Rosemary. I'm Jane's mother."

That clearly answered an unasked question, if the weak but thankful smile Angela gave her was any indication. But the more pressing question – the one she had asked – was of yet unanswered.

"He's just fine," Rosemary stated simply. "Had a bit of a bump on the head." Best not to divulge more than that. She hadn't been authorized to spread the word around town about what had happened to Dean, after all, and considering she hadn't even met the boy yet, it would feel wrong to say more.

For her part, Angela didn't look all that convinced. She eyed Rosemary warily, those giant, magnified eyes of hers gauging her, weighing out her words and tasting them on her tongue to try to cipher out the truth. She was clearly agitated, worry etched on her face like lines on a roadmap, easy to read and navigate if you had a sense of direction. Years working as a nurse had taught Rosemary how to traverse those roads with practiced ease, so she rested a weathered hand on the girl's shoulder and gave her a gentle pat.

"There there," she soothed calmly. "Settle down now, dear. Dean is just fine. Why don't you come in and have a cup of tea?"

888

Angela Platt, Dean's "bug girl," was a bosom friend from the word "go." There was something very eager and open about her, something honest and vulnerable and sweet. Rosemary took a liking to her immediately as she worked to soothe the poor girl's frazzled nerves with tea and cookies. She would have thought that it would be awkward at first, but Dean's little insect-girlfriend seemed to have very few inhibitions when it came to talking to strangers, especially if she was talking about Dean. And good Lord, that poor girl was head over heels in love.

"He works really hard," the girl was saying as she nodded her head for added emphasis before taking a hearty gulp of cooling tea. "He was behind in school, but he got caught up in one summer."

Rosemary had heard as much from her daughter, but she raised her eyebrows in surprise anyway, exclaiming, "Did he now?" for the sake of watching the girl bob her head again in the affirmative.

"Yeah, people don't always see it, because he plays dumb most of the time, but Dean's really smart. He's like a whiz at Math and Science."

"And then he has you to help him with his English," Rosemary prompted with a genial smile. Bless her, the child burned red like a beet with the blush rising in her cheeks.

They talked about school and the neighbourhood and the Beatles and everything under the sun that came to mind. Angela was a real talker, liked to discuss books and music and what little bit of politics her fourteen year-old mind could reasonably, objectively grasp. Rosemary had to try not to giggle at the girl's fervour and enthusiasm, at the way her eyes would bulge out with the intensity of her feelings on a particular subject, with the way her lips set in a hard line when she discussed a hot button issue or anything that she found generally upsetting. But she had to be especially careful not to giggle at the way Angela Platt positively lit up when she talked about Dean Winchester. The boy was a hero who risked life and limb to save drowning toddlers. He was a veritable god at martial arts, could swim circles around Olympic athletes, and had the best body any almost-fifteen year-old boy had ever had. The words worship and idolatry perfectly described Angela's adoration of Dean. Granted, he annoyed her a lot of the time. He was tactless, often rude, and had a sense of humour that matched her kid brother Adam's. He was entirely too fond of pulling pranks, listened to crappy metal rock way too loud, and was so arrogant about his looks she wanted to pluck his eyes out. But even with all of that, he was just about perfect in the eyes of Angela Platt.

It is not to be assumed, however, that Angela went straight out and confessed all of these things in so many words. She didn't openly admit that Dean Winchester was the Earth and moon and sun around which her entire world revolved. She didn't say aloud that she thought he was the prettiest boy Angela had ever seen. But her earnest ramblings, the wistful smiles and longing sighs, were evidence enough of how she felt. And wherever there were gaps, Rosemary was pretty good at reading between the lines.

The old matriarch appreciated the rare moment of insight into her new grandson's life. It gave her a better idea of what to expect when he finally did arrive. Not that Jane hadn't filled her in, with regular updates, on how things were going with Dean, what kind of kid he'd turned out to be, and what he was like to live with from day to day. But a mother and a lover are going to see two very different things when they look at the same young man, so Rosemary saw the value in getting a different perspective. It helped to paint the picture more clearly, she thought. Gave her a few new angles with which to admire the image she'd conjured up in her mind. She wondered how it would compare to the real thing when he finally arrived.

She didn't have to wait long to get that chance.

They both froze when they heard the car pull up into the driveway. Angela made a move to stand and knocked her cup of tea over and then scrambled madly in her attempt to clean it up while Rosemary urged her many times in a soothing voice to just let it be. It helped, maybe, to have the distraction of a mess that needed cleaning while the elder and younger woman both worked through feelings of anxiety and anticipation. Angela had made vague references to a fight she'd recently had with Dean, and Rosemary was pretty sure that the two teens hadn't spoken since that fight – so it made perfect sense that Angela was a bundle of nerves. And Rosemary... Well, Rosemary had been waiting a long time to meet Dean Winchester, and now the time had finally arrived and she suddenly felt all of fourteen years old herself for how nervous she was.

Taking a deep breath and strengthening her resolve, Rosemary made her way through the kitchen, Angela trailing reluctantly, hesitantly behind her, and crossed through the family room toward the main entrance of the house. She could hear voices beyond the door, Sam talking animatedly while Suzie chimed in with exclamations supporting her brother's excited claims. She thought they might be talking about her pie. Then another voice broke through, an unfamiliar and highly anticipated voice.

"I swear to God, Sam, if you don't stop dancin' around you're gonna trip me," the voice that could only belong to Dean said.

"I'm not dancing," Sam's voice retorted even as it was cut off by his older brother's further reprimand.

"And if you trip me I promise you the mother of all wedgies."

The banter continued from there, light-hearted and playful between two brothers who were obviously well accustomed to it. Rosemary found herself smiling at the sound of it, so pleased within herself as warmth spread through her with the knowledge that Sam and Dean were together again – as they should be. She hadn't been there for the reunion four months ago, but she could imagine what it must have been like for them, to finally see each other again after being separated for so long. It must have just been so awful for Dean to have been taken away from his brother like that, to end up with strangers and go through God only knew what all on his own. She wiped the budding moisture from her eyes as a key turned in the lock and the front door swung open.

Peter appeared first, looking tired and care-worn as he swung the door open wide and held it open to make room for his family to pass through. Suzie came bounding on his heels, bopping on her toes, pig-tails flailing as she bounced into view. Sam was right behind her, bright-eyed and dimpled smiles and looking just as adorable as ever – and Rosemary really had to chide herself a bit for allowing so much time to lapse between visits because really, it had been too long. Then, before she had time to ponder on it further, Jane appeared, or half of her body did, at least, as she back-shuffled through the open doorway, her left arm eased carefully behind the shoulders of her young charge. They were leading Dean through the doorway with careful ease, as though he might collapse at any moment, and Rosemary stood on tip toes to try to get a look at him as he came through. But then Suzie was squealing, "Grammy!" and there was only enough time for her to blink before she was wrapped up in a blur of blonde pigtails and shaggy brown hair as her two grandkids threw themselves at her with clinging embraces.

"You're here!" Suzie beamed. "You came to see my new brother!"

Rosemary smiled down at her granddaughter and squeezed tightly. "I came to see all of you," she said genially.

"He's _my_ brother," Sam snapped mulishly at his little sister before turning his dimples up toward his Grammy's smiling face. "You're here to see Dean, right? Did you make pie like I said?"

He was a cheeky little bugger, that Sam Wesley. Always with his eye on the prize, and apparently very possessive of his big brother. Rosemary chanced a glance towards the door and finally got her first look at the grandson she'd never met. She couldn't help the gasp that snuck up her throat at the sight before her.

She had been warned that the bruising on the left side of Dean's face was bad, but startling, shocking, skin-tinglingly painful to look at might have been more accurate. His left eye was swollen almost completely shut and purple-brown. It had to be excruciating to even attempt to open that eye, much less touch it, for all the swelling surrounding that delicate area. The boy's cheek was mottled with blackish bruising tinged with yellow at the edges, and his lip was split.

But God help her, it wasn't the severity of the bruising that caused Rosemary Tilny to gasp in shock. It wasn't the swelling, or the one working eye, or even the injury itself that had forced the startled noise from her lungs. Any one of those things might have been responsible for it, or all of them combined, but the fact was something else entirely had made Rosemary Tilny gasp.

Dean Winchester was a beautiful child. When Angela had joked that Dean was a pretty boy, she hadn't been joking at all. His features were too fine, too delicate, to be called anything _but_ pretty. Full, sumptuous lips, high cheekbones, straight, fine nose and wide green eyes framed by long, dark lashes. Dean was beautiful – just beautiful – and no amount of bruising or swelling could mask that. But in spite of all that, there was something inherently masculine about him. The strong set of his young jaw, the manly cleft in his chin, and the sharp angle of his eyebrows were unmistakably boyish and masculine. He was too pale with the recent concussion, but even so his skin was flawless and smooth.

He was just stunning to look at. And he could clearly see that she was staring. And by the way he froze and swallowed as though he were gulping in a lungful of air, her staring was making him uncomfortable.

Rosemary ducked her head with embarrassment, sucked in another calming breath, and raised her eyes with a smile.

"Hi Dean," she offered.

Dean looked a bit like a deer in the headlights, his one eye wide, his lips slightly parted in some kind of dumb shock, or maybe he was just speechless because he'd been caught off guard, wasn't expecting her to be there. She couldn't be sure, though in the grand scheme of things it didn't matter much anyway. He'd gotten konked on the head and as such had earned the right to remain silent.

"Dean, this is my mother," Jane explained. Then she turned towards Rosemary and smiled. "Hi, Mom. Thanks so much for coming."

Mother and daughter shared a tight, long hug, and Rosemary could feel very fine tremors running through her daughter's entire frame.

"I'm so glad you came," Jane whispered reverently.

Yes, it had definitely been too long, Rosemary thought. Her poor daughter's nerves were vibrating through her skin and it felt good to just hold her grown baby girl, offering strength and support and love through the solidity and warmth of her own body. _I've got you, my girl_, her arms said. _Mom's here now to help ease the load_. And then Jane relaxed against her, message received.

When they finally let go, Rosemary straightened before her new grandson. He was tall for his age, and broad, towering over her at her pathetic height of 5'0". He would probably be taller than Peter when all was said and done – which wasn't saying much, considering that Peter wasn't exactly a giant. Now that she was close enough to touch him she could see the faint lines of pain in his eyes and forehead as the lingering pains from the concussion drew themselves out in living colour on the planes of his face. His right arm was strapped against his chest in some kind of sling, while his left hung tensely at his side, the hand fisting and unfisting in obvious discomfort. He looked so small, standing there, so nervous and young and fragile, for all the was taller and far more muscled than she was.

She couldn't control the impulse – she had to hug him.

Dean might have tensed up when her round arms drew him into her, though stiffening like a board might be a more accurate way to describe it. She heard the light catch in his breath when she squeezed him gently, lovingly, and promptly ignored it. If this boy wasn't used to being hugged he'd just have to darned well get over it because Grammy Tilny was a hugger and a cheek-pincher and a forehead kisser, too. And for five years she had thought of this boy – this lost, abandoned, rejected boy – and there were so many things that needed saying and doing that simply couldn't be done. She wanted to apologize for her daughter, for not being able to convince her to keep him. She wanted to reassure him that he wasn't to blame for the decisions that the adults responsible for him had made. She wanted to hug him and squeeze him and just give him every sweet thing he'd lived without for those lonely years without his brother.

But instead she settled for a brief hug, trying to pour into it everything she felt, trying to show him how much she welcomed him to her family, how glad she was that he was here, and how much she was not like Margaret and Abraham Wesley. And when she finally let go, she made sure to look him in the eyes, cupping his cheeks for good measure (and ignoring his full-bodied flinch when her hands touched his face) and holding him in place to just lock gazes with him for a moment. It was probably weird, and the poor boy was squirming under his skin to get away from her, but he needed to know where she stood.

"Welcome to the family," she said intently.

He gulped and nodded.

888

Okay. Grammy Tilny was officially a freakin' whackjob! Super touchy-feely-huggy-smiley chubby lady who looked on the verge of tears every time she looked at him, freaking him right the fuck out. Sam and Suzie liked her well enough, and the pie she'd left cooling on the kitchen counter did smell seriously, mouth-wateringly awesome. But what was with the face-touching? And the weepiness? And the whole looking-at-him-like-he-was-the-second-coming thing? It was unsettling, is what it was. Old people didn't like Dean. That fact was pretty much a universal truth. The sun rose in the East, Michael Jackson was a freaky perv, and adults didn't like Dean unless they wanted to fuck him. But man, Grammy Tilny was looking at Dean like he was her long lost grandson or something, and that was just... That just didn't compute.

Dean eased himself towards the couch and sank into it with a heavy sigh of relief. Sitting was good. Sitting relieved him somewhat of the floating, throbbing head feeling. Then he promptly jumped out of his skin when he saw familiar grey, googly eyes peering intently at him from a few inches away.

"Jesus!" he exclaimed through the exploding-heart sensation in his chest. Angela was sitting on the couch right next to him and in his haste to get away from Gropey Granny he'd completely neglected to notice.

_Great hunter you'll be, Jackass!_ he thought wryly.

"Sorry!" Angela blurted nervously. "I didn't mean to – _Oh_ _God, your face!_ – I didn't mean to startle you!"

There were a number of things he wanted to say in reply to that, but his exploded heart was too busy barrelling against his chest (which defied physics but happened nonetheless) for him to speak coherently. He settled for scowling at her while he tried to catch his breath. Sweet Jesus the blood rushing to his brain felt like someone had cracked his skull open and set it on fire.

"I called," Angela explained. "I-I left messages but I guess no one was home, being at the hospital with you and all. And so I just – God, does that hurt? You really look awful."

Dean closed his eyes and breathed through his nose.

"Feels _awesome_," he snarked through clenched teeth.

"Dean, sweetie, would you like some tea?" Gropey Granny asked sweetly. "I'm sure Jane has some herbal mint tea that might help with your headache."

"M' good, thanks."

Mint tea was for chicks and old ladies and since Dean was neither of those things, and because it sounded just gross, Dean politely declined.

"Hot cocoa?" the woman pressed, sugared with honey. "Warm milk?"

'Bullet in the brainpan?' Dean thought bitterly.

"Naw, thanks," he said instead. "I'm good – really."

He drifted off to the sounds of Sam and Suzie chatting with their grandmother, trying very hard all the while not to notice the way Angela's ginormous eyes were boring into him. It was awkward as hell sitting there with her, not knowing what to say but feeling he should say something. And Angela, for her part, was so big-eyed scared, probably freaked out about how trashed his face looked, just sat there oozing nervousness all over him like a slobbery dog. Plus there was the giant elephant in the room named SheRatted MeOut still standing between them.

So Dean opted to brush aside all the awkward unpleasantness and just cut to the chase.

"We good?" he asked, squinting at her sleepily with his one good eye. "You know, with the whole..." Better to trail off than say aloud what she'd done, especially with the eager Grandma within hearing distance.

Angela nodded fervently, wilting with relief even as her eyes misted up and her damned lip started giggling. She looked about a nanosecond away from bursting into big girlie tears and Dean so didn't have the patience for this right now. Plus – _awkward!_ What the hell would she be crying about, anyway?

"Just so we're clear, though," he said pointedly to head her off from starting up any water works. "Pull any shit like that again and I'll pin you down and tickle you until you piss yourself. Got it?"

She sniffled a bit and then huffed a laugh.

"What? No threats to kick my ass?"

Dean gave a one-shouldered shrug. "I thought about it," he admitted. "But I got principles. I don't hit girls."

"No, you just hit _on_ them."

They both chuckled lightly at her muttered retort and things slipped back to normal after that. Angela babbled about school, filling him in on all the best gossip – including some particularly juicy rumours about why Dean had been absent on Friday. According to one classmate, Dean had dropped out of school because he couldn't hack it in the preppy environment. Another had him committing suicide for reasons unknown. Dean's personal favourite involved a police interrogation gone wrong, for which the arresting offence was undisclosed. Long as they thought he was bad-ass, Dean didn't much care what kind of rumours circulated about him. And anyway, getting arrested was way cooler than being mugged.

It was nice being home. Dean felt weird even thinking that – _home_ – but he figured wherever Sam was _would_ be home for him. But it was an added bonus having Suzie here, and Jane and Peter, and even Angela. He'd grown sort of comfortable here, had gotten used to the shape and size and fit of things, as though it had all moulded to fit his body just perfectly. And it was probably a bad idea to think that way, considering how likely it was that everything would be yanked out from under him without a moment's notice, but right now Dean didn't care. It was probably the head injury talking, but he thought maybe it would be worth the hurt just to have had this, to have felt this way.

Yeah, definitely the head injury talking.

Eventually everyone else joined them in the living room. Dean zoned out for most of the conversation, dozing for brief periods, listening for others, and generally just enjoying how snugly he was fit into the couch cushions now that his head wasn't throbbing anymore. Suzie even curled up on his lap and nestled against his left shoulder and that was almost kinda nice. It reminded him of when Sam was little and the two of them would curl up together to watch Saturday morning cartoons when Dad was gone.

Grammy Tilny talked about the ranch back in Wisconsin, offering up apologies for her husband Fred, who couldn't make it because of horse-related business. Dean had never been on a horse but he'd always wanted to try it. Cowboys were cool and he bet he'd look pretty freakin' awesome in a cowboy hat and slingin' a gun. It was easy conversation and Angela held up her end well enough, having spent some one-on-one time with the old broad while they were waiting for the Wesleys to get home with Dean.

"Angela, sweetheart," Mrs. Tilny was saying. "Would you be a dear and run out to the back yard to bring Dean his surprise?"

Well okay, so Dean had to wake up for that. Bring in Dean's surprise? There was a surprise?

He sat up straight and blinked the sleep from his good eye. The little old lady was smiling sheepishly at him, her withered hands resting gently in her lap, her eyes crinkling and twinkling with something that looked a lot like mischief.

"I hope you don't mind, Dean," she said almost conspiratorially, "But I've brought you a little something from Wisconsin."

He wanted to protest. He really did. In his mind he was coming up with a number of very polite refusals that sounded like, 'You really shouldn't have,' and 'Thanks, but that wasn't necessary,' but when he opened his mouth to speak nothing came out. He was completely tongue tied and at an utter loss for words. His mouth was open, his lips were moving, but the words flew out his ears like fizzing bits of smoke.

She'd brought him something from Wisconsin. She'd brought him something – like a gift. She hadn't even met him and had already done something nice for him. It was just... It was _alien_.

Jane, on the other hand, seemed to have some kind of idea of what her mother's gift might entail, because she stood up slowly and frowned.

"Mom..." she warned.

The tiny, portly old lady shrugged and smile-frowned with closed eyes.

"I'm allowed to spoil my new grandson," she said smugly. "And I'd say he's in need of some serious spoiling, all things considered."

"Mom, we talked about this," Jane argued tightly.

"I'm an old lady," Grammy Tilny replied. "My memory's not what it used to be." Which was clearly bullshit. Dean bet she was sly as a fox.

"And anyway, I can't very well take it back, so..." And she left it hanging, as if her hands were completely tied.

God, he wished they would stop speaking in freaking code, or Angela would hurry the hell up, or something would happen to make his tongue feel not-glued to the roof of his mouth. He felt hot in the face, not knowing what was going on, not knowing what they were talking about, and more than a little uneasy that they were on the verge of breaking out into an argument about him. He fucking hated it when Jane and Peter fought over him, and now the little old lady was going to get in on the action too, it seemed.

Fuck, if they were just going to fight about it, Dean would rather that Mrs. Tilny just took the damned thing back. He didn't want whatever it was if it was going to cause this much trouble. But what the hell kind of gift could cause trouble, anyway? She wasn't giving him a switchblade or a bowie knife – those kinds of gifts would raise a few eyebrows. And he was damned certain she hadn't bought him a car. Those were the only kinds of gifts he could see anyone bothering to fight about.

But then Angela was emerging through the kitchen with a small bundle in her gangly hands and Dean understood exactly why Jane and her mother were arguing about Dean's gift. When Peter saw it he was going to hit the damned roof.

Grinning at him like Christmas had come early, Angela resumed her place next to him on the couch and deposited into his lap a very squiggly, very tubby-tummied, puppy.

888

The puppy wasn't cute. Nope. It wasn't. Not one bit. That little face with the big, dewy brown eyes with the white stripe from the tip of its nose, up between its eyes and between its ears, which hung like two perfect, floppy bows aside its face, was in no way cute. The little pot belly? Not cute at all. And the super saggy puppy skin that just sort of rolled off its tiny body in waves that were so soft to the touch that Dean found himself groping it just for the smooth feel of it gliding against his fingers? Not even a little bit cute.

She was a warm weight in his lap, a soft bundle of heat against the skin of his hands, and her little tongue softly lapping against his stroking fingers was like wet velvet. He was so fucking in love with the damned puppy that he could feel tears prickling behind his eyes and it was no fucking fair because he had a head injury and apparently head injuries made him weepy.

He wiped furiously at his eyes and cursed his traitorous, jiggling lip because he was about to start blubbering and crying over a goddamned _puppy_.

"A puppy!" Suzie squealed, or rather, shrieked, as she flew up from the comfortable crook of Dean's armpit and rammed her rock-hard head into the underside of his injured face in her attempt to sit up straight.

"You got us a puppy you got us a puppy you got us a puppy!" she wailed excitedly. Dean was sure his ears were bleeding.

Sam was struck completely speechless at first. He stared almost dumbly at the puppy for a full eight second count – and Dean counted – before vaulting onto his feet and doing a couple of elated jumps that Dean would later insist were pirouettes. His dimples were craters in his cheeks, his eyes so bright and shiny they looked golden brown, and his little arms swung back and forth in a kind of victory dance as he hopped around like a fucking idiot.

"A puppy!" he parroted his little sister. "Oh wow! Oh _wow!_ This is –" he turned a megawatt grin on his grandmother. "Thank you so much!"

Dean was too dazed to do more than listen to Sam and Suzie spazz out about the puppy. They both wanted to hold her but neither dared attempt to prise her from Dean's lap. But they were bounding around and squealing and leaping out of their skins with excitement, and Dean figured their antics would probably freak the puppy out anyway, so he just held her closer and remained mute. It was safer to stay quiet, in case that Judas lip of his started trembling again.

"Mom, we've talked about this!" Jane hissed in a harsh whisper as she attempted to pull her mother aside for a 'private' conversation that all four kids in the room could hear loud and clear. "You know we don't want any pets in the house."

But the old lady just shrugged.

"Tough."

"I can't believe you went over our heads like this," Peter growled quietly. "We said no dogs and we mean no dogs!"

Another shrug.

"The children need a pet," she said simply, though there was a hint of challenge to it. "She'll be a nice companion for them to help them through the rough times they've been having. Dean's had a rough month – a dog will do him good."

"No," Peter denied. "Absolutely not. You'll have to take it back."

"_It_ is a _she_," Mrs. Tilny said blandly. "And I'm not taking her back."

"Then we'll take her to the pound!" Peter threatened.

All four kids gasped in stereo at that, including Dean. He reflexively snuggled the puppy closer, trying not to melt when she rolled onto her back and exposed her pink, spotted belly to him. Jesus Christ the naked skin there was soft and tender and her little fat belly was so fucking cute that the very idea of her going to the pound made his eyes water again.

"It-it's okay," Dean croaked, clearing his throat to find his voice at last. "I... You can take her back. It's okay. I don't need a dog."

He didn't. He'd gotten by the last fourteen years just fine without having a dog. He'd get by just fine for another fourteen without one. Granted, he'd always _wanted_ a dog. There was something sort of heart-warming in the image of dog as man's best friend. Like a loyal family member who would love you no matter what you did, who'd stay with you until they died, who'd never leave you because where you were was home.

Huh... Kind of like Dean.

But wanting and needing were two very different things. And he didn't need a dog, not if it meant that Peter and Jane were going to be fighting with Mrs. Tilny. He'd rather the puppy went back to the ranch than have them fight over it. He wasn't worth that much trouble.

However, as soon as the words had left his lips, both Sam and Suzie were up in arms with twin, plaintive protests of "Mo-om!"

"You can't take it back!" Suzie whined, or maybe she was begging. "Mom, don't let her take it back!"

"Dean needs a dog!" Sam pleaded. "And we'll all help take care of her, _promise!_"

Dean suspected that his brother had had this conversation with his parents before. Different verse, same as the first.

"Your brother's right, Dean," Mrs. Tilny agreed quietly. She moved away from Jane and Peter and seated herself in the empty loveseat near the couch. "Do you know what kind of a dog that is?"

Dean shook his head no.

"That," she said proudly, "Is a beagle. They're pack dogs – hunting dogs, actually."

He tried not to feel anything at that news. It didn't mean anything, a hunter like him getting a hunting dog. Besides, she didn't mean ghost hunting. Still... It felt a little bit like fate, if Dean believed in something as lame as fate. Which he didn't.

"Beagles are generally raised in packs, you see," she went on. "So they're very social dogs. Very loyal dogs. You get a beagle when it's a puppy, like she is now, and she'll bond with your family so tightly that the family becomes her pack."

Dean wished she wouldn't tell him anymore, because he was going to have to give the damned dog away anyway. Hearing about how awesome this particular breed of dog was was only going to make losing her harder.

"I don't need a dog," he forced himself to say as he pulled what was left of his calm mask. It was pretty tattered and full of gaping holes, but it was the best he could muster under fire.

But Mrs. Tilny was shaking her head.

"I think you do," she said. "You all do. A dog can be your best friend, as well as a great protector. When she's bigger, you could take her on your walks with you. That way you wouldn't have to worry about any other attackers sneaking up on you unawares."

Dean wanted to say that that wasn't likely to happen again, now that he'd learned his lesson the hard way, but there was something in her eyes that killed that thought before it had a chance to make it to his lips. There was something earnest in her expression, something urgent, _urging_. She opened her eyes wide and tilted her head ever so slightly, and there was a message there that he clearly wasn't getting.

But Sam, apparently, had cottoned on.

"Right!" he agreed. "She can be Dean's guard dog!" he announced proudly. "He'll _need _her to go on his walks with him. So that he never gets hurt again."

And Suzie, right on cue, added her own pathetic wail. "I don't want Dean to get hurt again!"

It was an awesome example of tag-teaming and Dean found himself daring to hope as he raised his eyes hesitantly to look over at Jane and Peter's matching defeated expressions.

"Fine," Peter said at length.

Sam and Suzie renewed their victory dances, Sam exclaiming a series of hissed "Yes-yes-yesses!" as he hopped around like a jumped up Energizer Bunny.

"But she's your responsibility," Peter warned. "You'll have to walk her every day, feed her, clean up after her. And when she grows up and isn't a cute little puppy anymore, you don't get to dump her on someone else. She's your responsibility for life."

"That's right," Jane added. "Once you take her there's no giving her back."

"We won't!" Dean gulped, then, more calmly, "We won't."

Beagles weren't really big dogs, Dean learned, though they weren't exactly small, either. They were somewhere in between. Smallish, but part of the hound family, deep-voiced with intimidating barks. They were vocal dogs, which meant he'd have to train her not to bark at people when they came to the door. Dean could totally do that. And they were prone to obesity, Mrs. Tilny explained, so Dean would have to walk her every day. No problem.

This beagle wasn't entirely purebred. She had an odd mix of part Corgi somewhere in her history and it left her with a lighter coat than was normal for the breed. The black patches on her coat weren't so much patches as they were mottled stray hairs colouring the rusted gold of her fur. Like beagles, her underside, legs, and chin were white, and she had the classic white strip running from her nose to the base of her skull. Her ears were a bit shorter than a purebred beagle's too, though they were still long. And her tail – God, her tail curled around in a perfect loop, white at the tip.

"Let's call her Lucy!" Suzie urged.

"I think we should call her Molly!" Sam argued.

Dean didn't know what to call her. He wanted it to be something cool, like Zeppelin or... Well, actually, he didn't really have many cool names for a female dog.

"We should call her Lucy!" Suzie repeated, tugging at his arm. "Let's call her Lucy, Dean!"

Dean supposed Lucy was as good a name as any, and it wouldn't be so bad letting Suzie name the dog. Even though it was supposed to be his, all three of them would be living with her.

"Why Lucy?" he asked.

"You know," she replied, grinning up at him. "In the sky... with diamonds...?"

_Aw crap!_ After that little nudge, Angela was practically clawing at his wrist in her enthusiasm.

"Lucy!" she said. "Lucy! Lucy! You _have_ to name her Lucy!"

"Please? _Pleeeeease_?" Suzie wheedled. "She looks like a Lucy."

Dean was so screwed. And the dog, apparently, was now a Lucy.

TBC

**End Notes:**

For those of you who think that Grammy Tilny has taken to Dean too quickly, or is too emotionally involved, all I can offer up as an excuse is that there are a great many people like that in this world. Separating kids is a horrible thing, and someone from that older generation might consider it a cardinal sin. Rosemary is someone who is led by her heart, and she tried very hard to convince her daughter to keep both boys. This chance to see Dean after all these years is a really big deal for her, and I've written her reactions accordingly.

Is she a sap? Absolutely. Was she hard on Jane? You'd better believe it. Has she opened her arms and accepted Dean as her family without any strings attached because to her he basically is family? 100% yes. It might seem far-fetched (though I hope not), but it's what _I_ would do if my grown daughter got a chance to rescue a kid she'd rejected after taking his brother.

So there you have it. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. ;)


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter Notes:**

I offer no excuses, but only my sincerest apologies. This chapter was very difficult for me. I struggled with it, I tweaked, I tore it apart, I tossed it, I wrote and re-wrote it. In the end it turned out I had no idea where I wanted it to go (even though most of the story is mapped out already in my head). Hopefully it was worth the wait. It was a lot more angsty than I had intended, but this is where the muse took me (she's a real bitch sometimes!).

Thank you all so much, from the bottom of my heart, for your kind words and enthusiasm! And to those of you who were so kind as to send private messages inquiring after my health and well-being, I offer my sincerest thanks. I am not dead (though I did suffer a horrible bout of the flu that put me out of commission for a full week).

The story should pick up again more quickly after this chapter.

* * *

**Chapter 26**

There weren't many days that he woke up in the morning thinking, "Gee, it's great to be John Winchester!" In fact, ever since the _bloodscreamingsmokefire_, John had keenly felt that he wouldn't mind trading places with Eddie-the-Bum or Joe the One-Eyed Boozer, if it meant an escape from his own skin. Losing Mary was like losing the biggest, best chunk of his soul, and for just shy of five years the hopeful, innocent faces of his two sons had been bittersweet pleasure-pain to him. He loved his boys more than himself, more than anything on this Earth, but he was so fucking afraid for them that sometimes being around them hurt like a sucker punch to the gut. He was so afraid for them, afraid of what the darkness would do if and when it managed to sink its claws into them, that he put hunting first and his kids second. He had just wanted so badly to keep them safe – needed to keep them safe.

Being behind bars made doing his job as a father almost impossible. He knew he'd been a shit father before he got arrested, and he was certain that what he was about to do would forever immortalize him as the Biggest Asshole Dad Ever to Crawl the Earth. But there was a bigger picture – there was always a bigger picture – than just loving his kids and being there for them. Christ knew he couldn't do anything for them while he was behind bars, but he could make damned sure that they were ready. He could and _would_ push and push and push them until they were a tight, cohesive unit, each watching the other's back, so that they could keep each other safe. Did it make a difference to the Yellow-Eyed sonofabitch that Dean was only fourteen and Sam only ten? The answer, of course, was a resounding 'No.' That demon wasn't going to wait until they were old enough, or prepared enough, before it decided to strike. It wasn't going to wait until John got out of jail and was there to keep his kids safe.

That meant that Dean was his last line of defence in keeping that evil motherfucker away from Sam. John still had no clue what it wanted with his baby boy, but it couldn't be good. A child marked by a demon at such a young age could only have the most sinister plans behind it. Some kind of ritual sacrifice, maybe, to raise some unspeakable evil? Or perhaps it was more sinister than that. Maybe the demon had chosen Sam to corrupt him somehow, win him over to darkness so he could use him for his own demonic purposes. John didn't really know what the hell kind of games demons played that involved little children, but he was damned sure that he didn't want to find out.

They were keeping that demon away from Sam. Period. Which meant Dean needed to step up his game. Which meant John had to get his eldest son on the phone and tear him a new one, even though his heart was screaming at him to just wallow in the relief of Dean's narrow escape from that mugger. He wanted so badly to just melt through the phone and hold his boy tight, hold him and never let go. He wanted to tell him that he was proud of him for fighting the fucker off one-handed. He wanted to praise him for being so strong and quick and brave.

But instead he was going to tear him down. He was consciously, with premeditation, going to ream that kid until he was trembling with the weight of responsibility that was his little brother's care – because if Dean couldn't keep himself and Sam safe, both boys were lost. And John couldn't accept that.

His heart ached at a sudden memory sprung before his mind's eye. He could remember it as though he were living it all over again: Dean at four years old, playing with his soccer ball in the front yard while Mary bounced baby Sammy on her lap. John had been inside on the phone with his business partner, Mike Guenther, and the discussion hadn't been going well. He couldn't remember what they'd been arguing about at the time, but it was enough to get John's blood pressure going. Mary had snuck inside with the baby for a quick pee break, and it was in that blink of maybe a couple of minutes, tops, when Dean lost his ball and wandered out onto the road in hot pursuit. John and Mary both ran at the sound of squealing tires, hearts in their throats with visions of their blonde-haired baby boy crushed and lifeless a few feet from their house. But Dean was okay. He was okay. The red Dodge had swerved into the ditch and Dean stood triumphantly clutching his ball, completely oblivious to the danger he'd just been in.

The relief was so overwhelming that at first John had been light-headed with it. But then Mary had burst into near-hysterical tears and John's relief had turned to anger. The poor child was slammed with a barrage of dire warnings: '_You could have died!' 'Do you have any idea how frightened we were!_' '_You know you're not to cross the street by yourself!'_ And God help him, how was he supposed to impress upon a four year-old the concept of danger, especially when that four year-old was Dean – Dean who loved things that made loud banging noises, Dean whose eyes would light up with excitement when things blew up on TV, Dean who giggled when he took a tumble that would have most kids his age bawling their eyes out – how was he supposed to make his young son comprehend that he'd nearly gotten himself killed over a fucking ball?

So Dean had gotten a spanking. It wasn't the worst spanking in the world – it certainly wasn't enough to scar him emotionally or anything. But the terror in his parents' eyes, especially his momma's, was enough to instil fear in him when nothing else would. He'd pulled up his cute little dimpled chin and bravely offered an apology, "I'm sorry, Mommy" and Mary had held him so tight, whispering harshly for him to '_never, ever, ever do that again, you hear me?_'

And three years later, when it came Sam's turn to try the same stunt, John thought he was prepared for it. He'd been at the library most of the morning and had spent all afternoon speaking to witnesses on the latest hunt. The boys were supposed to be in the motel room, under strict orders not to leave under any circumstances, but when John returned it was to find the damned room empty, with a note in Dean's untidy seven year-old scrawl saying, "Gone to the park with Sammy. Be back soon!" John should have been more understanding. It was a beautiful late-August day and the boys had been cooped up indoors since they arrived at that Podunk town two days prior. They were just looking to blow off a little steam. And boys would be boys, right?

He'd been prepared to rein in his temper, though his tone was harsh and commanding when he caught sight of his two wayward sons tossing a ball back and forth at the park (or, more accurately, Dean was rolling the ball on the grass towards Sam, while Sam ineffectually biffed the ball with a chubby arm, barely making it worth Dean's while to fetch the damned thing). John didn't ask where they'd gotten the cheap, plastic ball, though he silently prayed that Dean hadn't stolen it from some other poor kid.

John called Dean's name sharply, angry that his orders had been disobeyed in spite of his relief at seeing his boys safe and sound.

"Dad!" Dean exclaimed with a guilty jump and a freckled grin as his father marched over to him. "Sorry 'bout not stayin' inside," he apologized, squinting upward at his looming Daddy in the late afternoon sunlight. "But Sammy got cranky and then he started cryin'... I know we were s'posed to stay in, but..." he trailed off with a helpless shrug, as if to say, 'what can you do?' and looked up at his Dad knowingly. John felt a stab right in his ribcage, somewhere in the vicinity of his heart, at seeing that look on his little boy's face – a look that belonged on someone four times his age.

So he told himself to silence the angry bear inside and was just about to offer a reassuring pat on the shoulder, maybe even a consoling, "You did good, son," for the way his eldest had managed to curtail a full-on Sammy tantrum, when the sound of screeching tires drew his attention to the nearby intersection.

They'd both only looked away for a second, but three year-old Sam had important places to be, apparently. While the big boys talked shop, Sam had taken it upon himself to kick that damned plastic ball across the park and over the curb of the sidewalk, toddling his wobbly way right onto the street into oncoming traffic. The swerving Ford truck narrowly missed crushing him in front of a playground full of kids.

"Sammy!" Dean cried in a panic before John's horrified brain could catch up with him.

And then they both were on the move, making a beeline for the chubby toddler whose face was scrunching up in a perfect mask of terrified misery. Sam was startled more than hurt, but the ensuing water works would make anyone think that he'd been chased by the boogie man (or worse, _a clown_). He threw his little head back and howled at the enormity of his near-miss and John just scooped him up into his arms and held him close, so close, to soothe his baby's fears away.

"Shhhh, Sammy, I gotcha," he whispered, patting the shaggy brown mop of soft curls with a trembling hand. "You're all right, bud. You're okay. Daddy's gotcha."

Dean was at his side, pale-faced and out of breath and looking as though the world had just collapsed on top of him.

And this, right here, was why John had damned well told Dean to _stay the fuck indoors_.

"I almost got killded!" Sammy wailed, hiccupping for breath. Night and day different reaction, John noted, than Dean's three years previous.

"Yeah, well, that's why you're not supposed to run out onto the street," John grumbled, though he held on a little more tightly. "If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, Sammy. You do _not_ leave your brother's side."

Sam pouted stubbornly and squished his little face up with righteous three year-old indignation, as if to convey how truly hurt he was to be chastised after his recent brush with death.

"He didn't mean it, Dad," Dean defended his brother quietly. "He's only just a kid – he doesn't get that it's dangerous to play in the street."

_Right_. Because at the ripe old age of seven, Dean had clearly outgrown his own kid status. But then John looked and Dean's big green eyes were wide as saucers and kind of pleading, afraid even. He was no doubt remembering the smart spanking he'd received when he'd pulled the same stunt when he was Sam's age. Fearing for his little brother's tender bottom.

"Please don't be mad at Sammy," Dean pleaded. "It's not his fault – I was s'posed to be watchin' him."

"Not my fault," Sammy parroted, nodding against his Daddy's shoulder.

And it was true, damnit. He trusted Dean to man the fort while he was gone, especially for one afternoon. He'd asked him to do one damned thing and Dean had disobeyed. If he couldn't trust Dean at home to keep his brother safe, then all bets were seriously fucking off. How could John do his job, risking his life to fight all that evil in the dark, if Dean was going to bend to his brother's every whim just for the sake of avoiding a tantrum? Dean was his last line of defense on the home front, and if he couldn't trust Dean to look out for Sam then he might as well pack it all in and give up the hunt altogether.

"That's right," John growled, hating himself for it but ploughing ahead anyway because there was an important lesson here that needed learning right the hell now. "You were supposed to be watching him. At home. In the motel."

"I—" Dean gaped awkwardly, looking momentarily stunned. "We just- I thought... It was just for a lil' while, Dad."

"Just for a lil' while," Sammy sniffed, nodding again and burrowing into John's shoulder.

"I gave you an order," John intoned, enunciating his words carefully and hating the way Dean gulped as though his mouth had gone dry. "It looks like I can't trust you to obey me when I leave you with very simple instructions. I'm gone for one afternoon and this is what happens? Your brother almost gets hit by a car!"

Dean's head jerked back as though he'd been struck, though his eyes sharpened a bit with incredulity and he looked on the verge of scoffing. The seven year-old wasn't one for talking back, but John could see the retort on his tongue now, just waiting to take flight and earn him a serious ass-tanning. That little pink tongue peeked out to wet his lips and his sharp eyes skittered from John's to the ground and back up to John's again. He was just itching to say something. John could see it.

_He didn't almost-get-hit until __**you**__ got here_, a voice that sounded remarkably like Dean's sounded inside John's head. And John would lay down money that that's exactly what Dean was trying so very hard not to say. If Dean had even a single brain cell in his head he'd know better than to say it.

"You got something to say to me?" John challenged, daring Dean to put that particularly damning sentiment to words. Because if he even dared it would prove just how badly this lesson needed to be learned.

Dean quickly averted his eyes and resumed his dirt scuffling with the toe of his worn sneaker. "No," he mumbled sulkily.

"What was that?" John pressed.

"No sir," Dean replied, clearly now. Then, raising his head, tentatively added. "It's just..." He looked at John with an expression that pleaded with him to be reasonable, to see the clear, seven year-old logic that could probably pass for clear adult logic for anyone that wasn't a Winchester, for anyone that wasn't fighting a crusade against evil. _These kinds of mistakes are normal_, the look said. _There's no harm in going to the park to play ball. It's a normal kid activity. So we went out for a couple of hours to blow off some steam – it's not the end of the world. And besides – you were right there when Sam almost got hit. It's as much your fault as it is mine._

And for a normal person, living a normal, apple-pie life, those excuses would probably justify the offense. But Winchesters were hunters, and Dean might just be the only thing standing between his brother and the legions of Hell – so yeah, it was a big fucking deal when he dropped the ball and broke the damned rules. John's rules were there for a reason.

"It's just what?" John grated out, feeling his anger growing the more he dwelled on the microcosmic significance of this one seemingly insignificant flub on his son's part – the teeny, tiny mistake that represented the whole of everything that could go wrong if Dean couldn't be the soldier his father needed him to be.

Dean shrugged. "You were right there," he said at length.

It was the straw that broke the camel's back.

John wasn't proud of the way he acted, nor was he glad to impart the kind of harsh lesson he taught both his sons that day. When his heavy hand clamped down onto Dean's skinny wrist and lifted the poor boy nearly off his feet, so that he was scrambling on his toes to keep his footing, bumping into his father's legs as he was walked bodily across the street to the motel room. He didn't revel in the confused, bewildered expression on Dean's face when he shut himself up in the bathroom with him and took off his belt to issue the spanking that should have been Sam's, and would have been Sam's if Mary were still alive and evil weren't everywhere and John hadn't become a hardened bastard. Little pieces of himself flaked away with each slap of leather to Dean's bare, reddened bum, cracks forming in his soul with each bitten-off whimper, with each trickling, salty tear.

But the worst moment was afterwards, when the spanking was over and John was left in the motel room with two crestfallen kids who'd learned very different lessons from the same event. Sam learned that his willfulness and stubbornness could get his brother in trouble, and that he had to mind Dean or else Dean would fall out of line. And Dean? Well he learned that he was worth less than his brother, didn't he? He learned that when Dean screwed up, Dean got in trouble; and when Sam screwed up, Dean got in trouble. And a part of John knew that Dean understood it, understood and somehow simply accepted, with a hollow-hearted kind of heaviness that weighed his little shoulders down even more, that it was a burden he would bear far more easily than Sam. Because neither John nor Dean could bear the thought of any harm coming to Sam, even if it was a spanking. Not Sam – teeny, tiny, rolly-polly butterball Sam.

And Dean was strong and brave and competent, and he could handle the hard knocks. He could take a lickin' and keep on kickin', finding the courage somehow to pull up the brave face and distract his baby brother with games and TV, in spite of his stinging ass, and John had had to just find the nearest bar and drown his guilt in Jack Daniels or the urge to pull Dean into his arms and beg for forgiveness would have won out.

No, John wasn't proud of that moment, and though he had no desire to relive it, he was going to be the hard-ass and ream Dean again in order to keep him safe.

So he picked up the telephone and watched as the CO dialed the number for Peter and Jane Wesley's house in Philadelphia, hating himself that little bit more for what he was about to do. But what other choice did he have?

888

Dinner was quiet after all the afternoon's excitement. The puppy was settled snugly in a doze on one of the couch cushions and all three kids were coming down from their adrenaline highs. Angela Platt had returned home to her little brother for their own family meal, and it was just the Wesleys and their extended or added family left seated around the kitchen table. Rosemary was smugly pleased at the contented looks on the children's faces as they ate her home made chicken pot pie – none of her daughter's "healthy alternative" food at the table tonight. Dean had taken one bite, closed his eyes in a flutter of ecstasy, and boldly announced to Rosemary, through a mouthful of partially chewed food, "That's it! You're stayin'."

She resisted the urge to rub her hands together in wicked satisfaction. So far her plan was working: good cooking + puppy = approval. _Excellent_.

She very pointedly ignored the cool looks her daughter was giving her, knowing full well that Jane did not approve of the fattier foods, the pastries and desserts, or the puppy. But Rosemary was not above playing the Mom-card, which trumped Jane's own Mom-card, because Rosemary was older and had changed Jane's diapers and if she chose to lay down the law with her grown-up daughter then she would. Because the plain fact remained that these kids needed coddling. There'd been too much upheaval and stress, too much to invite nightmares in, to leave them feeling unsettled and frightened. And when the ground shook underneath a child's feet, that child needed as much comfort as he or she could get – and Rosemary knew just how to give it. So she bore her daughter's silent, simmering anger with calm indifference.

When the phone rang she thought at first that it would be ignored, as was the regular custom at meal time in Jane and Peter's house. Family meals were generally not to be interrupted by the demands of a ringing telephone. But then her son-in-law surprised her by quickly rising from the table, with a brief, whispered apology as the chair legs scraped against the floor in his haste to get to the phone. Rosemary thought maybe he was expecting a call from the police regarding Dean's attacker, or perhaps the doctor was supposed to call with more instructions for Dean's care.

"Wesley residence," Peter said. "Department of Corrections?" His brow furrowed in momentary confusion. "May I ask who's speaking?"

But Dean must have had an idea of who was on the phone because like a flash he was up from the table, his fork and knife clattering in his wake as he leapt from his seat and bounded towards the phone. He didn't say a word, just hovered next to Peter, his one working eye wide and pleading. Peter sighed in resignation and that was permission enough for Dean, who snatched the phone from his foster-father's hand and curled into the wall as if to make himself invisible for the duration of the telephone conversation.

"Dad?" His voice was breathless, hopeful, his fingers twining nervously through the curls of the phone cord. "Hey, Dad." Nodding nervously, shoulders rigid with tension. "I'm good, Dad. Little banged up, but good. [pause] What?" Scratching absently at the back of his head. "Yes sir."

Dean looked so tense Rosemary was sure he hadn't breathed since the words 'Department of Corrections' had left Peter's lips. His whole body thrummed with anxious energy, his stance tense, like a spring coiled too tight, aching for release but never being granted it. It made Rosemary wonder what kind of man John Winchester was.

"No," Dean replied. "No, he didn't... [pause] Yes sir. Ye-no sir." His mouth drew down into a frown, that plump bottom lip gnashed between his top and bottom teeth as he worried it unconsciously. "No sir, I wasn't... [pause] No, sir." Shoulders slumping. "You're right. Shouldn'a let him get the drop on me. Won't happen ag—no sir." He grimaced and took a deep, steadying breath before continuing. "I listen to it every morning when I take my run. I didn't think—" Once again he was cut off abruptly by his father, whose voice Rosemary could hear shouting through the phone even from this distance.

She had half a mind to hang up on the ornery bastard.

"Yes sir," Dean said, defeated. "No more walkman. Stupid, I know... [burying himself deeper into the wall] Yeah, sloppy. Yes sir. I promise."

The poor kid's shoulders were so slumped in defeat that he looked perfectly wretched. Rosemary's urge to hang up on Mr. Winchester morphed into a keen desire to reach through the phone and throttle him instead.

"But I got a coupl'a good shots in," Dean offered hopefully, then paused for a moment to listen to his father's reply. "Good solid shot to the gut – doubled him right over! And then when he knocked me down with a tackle I totally nailed him with a knee to the jewels." He paused again to wait for his father's reaction. "Oh, it got him good, believe me. Then, when he started pinnin' me, I rolled him right off and got him hard and fast – pow-pow – with a shot to the solar plexus and the throat. Coulda sworn I heard somethin' give too."

He chuckled at whatever his father said in reply and seemed to grow, suddenly, with the praise coming from the other end of the conversation.

"He was wheezin' pretty bad before he clocked me in the face with a rock," Dean beamed. "I was totally kicking his ass until he got in that lucky shot."

Even with all the bruising and swelling, Dean's face was remarkably expressive. He frowned, his bottom lip pouting in thought as he listened to his father.

"No, you're right. Not lucky," he muttered sullenly. "But I'll be better, I pr-" he cut off mid-sentence, interrupted by the voice on the other end. "Yes sir." He listened some more and then nodded his head. "Sammy's doin' good. We're both in the same school now – some yuppie Academy private thing." Then his head snapped around and his one wide eye looked guiltily at Jane and Peter. He mouthed 'sorry' exaggeratedly before nodding in reply to whatever his father was saying. "Yeah, great opportunity for Sam," he said with a bit of forced enthusiasm. "He really likes it, anyway. It's a good school. But I guess Bobby already told you that, huh?"

At this point in the conversation a very interesting change took place, the dialogue shifting gears from dressing down, then catch-up small-talk, to private, coded father-son talk that Dean clearly didn't want anyone else being witness to. He huddled close to the wall and turned his back to the family entirely, holding the phone close to his mouth and speaking in hushed tones. It didn't block the sound entirely – Rosemary could still make out most of what he was saying. But his replies were cryptic enough that no one in the Wesley residence would have a sweet clue as to their meaning.

"_He did?_" Dean's whispered voice sounded incredulous. "Where? When?" He nodded. "Okay. Sure – I mean, yes sir. I will." He stood up taller, his shoulders square, like a soldier standing at attention. It made all the fine hairs on Rosemary's skin stand on end.

"Yeah, you too," he huffed a breathless little laugh and nodded again. "I'll tell him."

And with that he hung up, turned around, and left the kitchen without another word. They listened to the sounds of his feet on the stairs as he made his way up to his bedroom and no one spoke until they were certain his door was closed.

"Well, that went well," Peter drawled humourlessly.

Because it really, really wasn't funny.

888

Dean tried not to take the stairs two at a time. He needed to get to his room and he needed to get there _now_. He could have been a bit more subtle about the whole exit thing, but he figured he'd be given a wide berth because of the whole concussion thing, and the talking-to-his-Dad thing, and the getting-_reamed_-by-his-Dad thing. Who wouldn't want to make a hasty retreat after being yelled at to pull his head out of his goddamned ass, to get his head back in the fucking game, to get his shit together before he got himself or his brother killed? Dean really wished his father were out of prison so he could have just kicked his ass instead of making him feel like the biggest failure the planet had ever seen – not that he hadn't deserved it. Because he did. He knew he did. But it wasn't the dressing-down that had him jumping out of his skin as he made a beeline for his bedroom. It wasn't shame or humiliation or a deep desire to be alone to deal with his 'emotions'. It was what Dad had told him about Bobby's visit.

"While you were in the hospital and the Wesleys were keeping vigil, Bobby popped by the house to do a little bit of safeguarding. I want you to go check it out."

Dean _knew_ that crafty old bugger wouldn't have left town without leaving his mark: and apparently a host of Devil's Traps (which his Dad hastily explained were some kind of demon symbols that trapped demons in them) in each bedroom, buried under the carpet, as well as some specially mixed paint with salt and iron somehow suffused into it, at every windowsill and door of the house, were the kind of work Bobby could pull off during a few break-ins over the weekend.

Closing the door behind him, Dean carefully crouched to his knees – head still spinning and pounding like a mother from the concussion – and peeled the carpet back from under the door casing. And there, sure enough, was a sweeping red spray-painted circle of a symbol beneath it. Dean was pretty sure that if he checked the carpet near the window he'd find a matching symbol there as well.

Man, Bobby was fuckin' _awesome_.

So the house was protected against demons. That was definitely a plus. Dean would like to see that evil sonofabitch try to get near Sam now. Well, actually, he wouldn't. He really wouldn't. But now that Bobby had set up these safeguards, the likelihood of him being able to get to Sam were less. Unless, of course, the demon came after Sam at school, or on the playground, or in the backyard, or anywhere else that wasn't inside the house. _Damnit_, there were so many places that still weren't protected. Still, Dean had to force himself to be optimistic. They spent a large chunk of their time inside these four walls, and if Dad couldn't be around to protect them, then the safeguards Bobby had left would have to do. For now.

Dean sighed and made his way to his closet to inspect the last item on his father's agenda. There was something else, Dad had said, that Bobby had left especially for Dean. Something secret. Something no one else in the house could know about (not that anyone was supposed to know about the Devil's Traps, either).

Dean held his breath, biting his bottom lip between his teeth as his blood pulsed through his veins. Dad hadn't told Dean what it was that Bobby had left him, but Dean was pretty sure he already knew. It was a weapon. It had to be. Bobby had left him a weapon – something for Dean to practice with, something he could use to protect himself and his family – and it was tucked away neatly in a metal lock box stuffed under the shoe rack in his closet. Dean crouched to his knees and slid the shiny silver box towards him. The combination lock on the cover secured it shut tightly, so that neither Sam nor Suzie could get in and accidentally kill themselves or someone else playing with it.

Licking his lips and taking a quick, steadying breath, Dean grasped the lock and turned the dial right-left-right: 32-16-25. It clicked and Dean eased it open with trembling hands, peering in at a thing of beauty gleaming inside the metal box.

Nickel-plated, with intricate engravings along the handle, was Dad's favourite Colt 1911. Dean had polished the thing more times than he could count, marvelling at the tender age of seven, eight, and nine, at how something so lethal could look so pretty, with its sleek design and swirling, engraved patterns, gleaming metal polished to mirrored perfection. He'd held the thing like a hallowed object, learned every contour and cranny, making it shine for his Daddy like a brand new penny.

And now it was his. Dean felt the weight of it in his palm and all his unease melted from his frame. He was like a cowboy taking the reins of a favoured steed at the end of a long journey, a race car driver sliding behind the wheel to grasp sleek leather. Young, practiced hands balanced the weapon with care, and Dean could feel himself sinking back into his own skin, as though he'd been wearing someone else's for the last five years. It felt right to have a gun in his hand, no matter if it would be fucked up to say it out loud. It felt right.

This was who he was supposed to be. A soldier. A warrior. Someone who fought monsters and saved innocent people. And maybe the last five years of fear and worry and shame and degradation were just... a nightmare or something. A horrible blip on the radar in an otherwise straight path to hunterdom. Dean could deal with that. It might take big steaming heaps of denial, and a few rigorous exercises in self-delusion, but Dean was nothing if not stubborn and persistent. They were always telling him that, when he set his mind to it, he could do _anything_. So yeah, maybe the last five years could just disappear.

Well, Dean thought. You'll never know unless you try, right?

He didn't have any damned ruby slippers, and he sure as hell wasn't going to click his heels and say, "There's no place like home!" But in his mind he performed a similar, though far more manly, symbolic 'happy thought' and willed his past to just cease to be. Dean was a soldier now. And he was going to kick some evil ass, live hard, die young, and leave a beautiful corpse.

It was a sound plan.

888

"Well that went well," Peter muttered darkly as the whole family watched Dean make a hasty retreat to his room.

"Should I...?" Jane wondered aloud, rising slightly from her seat as if to follow Dean.

Peter just shook his head.

"I think he just needs a moment alone," he consoled, though he sounded more hopeful than certain. "Bit overwhelming for him, probably, having all of us hovering all the time. And I imagine he's still in a great deal of pain."

Sam huffed a humourless laugh and scowled. "That, and John Winchester is a total _jerk!_" he snarked.

"Sam! Language!" Jane chided, but Sam wasn't one to be deterred when he was filled with righteous indignation.

"Well?" he challenged. "He is! You heard him yelling at Dean 'cos somebody _attacked him_ at the park! What kind of..." he struggled for the right words. "That's not right, Mom!" He shook his head desperately. "It's not right! Dean didn't do anything wrong, and he got hurt real bad, and he almost..."

He choked off the rest of his words as angry tears brimmed in his big, round eyes.

"Oh honey," Grammy Tilny sighed, reaching over with a weathered hand to clutch Sam's consolingly. "I know it looks bad, but your brother's fine."

But Sam wasn't biting, shaking his head in denial, pouting through his overwhelming frustration.

"He's not fine!" he ground out sullenly. "He's just a real good liar. He pretends he's tough and macho so we won't see that he's hurt—"

"Unless he wants the remote," Suzie amended thoughtfully.

"Unless he wants the remote," Sam conceded, the ghost of a smile playing at his tiny, bowed mouth. "Or if he thinks Mom'll bring him snacks on the couch in the living room."

Jane looked slightly scandalized but said nothing as Sam's smile crumpled into a fresh round of tears.

"H-he almost died," Sam whispered in terrified anguish. "When we went to see him in the hospital..." he told his grandmother, looking at her with pleading eyes. "He got hit in the head so hard he wouldn't wake up, even at the hospital, and the doctors thought they were going to have to operate on his brain. _His brain!_"

He sucked in a huge gulp full of air and shook with sobs, the fear and horror and earth-shattering reality of the situation bearing down on his ten year-old frame. It was a terrifying moment to witness, when Sam Winchester/Wesley learned of his own brother's mortality, that Dean could die some day.

"And Dean's got enough problems with his messed up head," Sam cried. "With the n-nightmares and drinking and sneaking off with girls at the water park..."

Peter's eyebrows got lost somewhere in his hairline at that revelation.

"...and struggling to keep up with school and police qu-questioning him about I-don't-know-what and _nobody will tell me!_"

He fired an accusing glare at his parents, who were looking at him with matching open-mouthed expressions of surprise.

"You think I'm just a dumb kid," he accused, "but Dean's _my_ brother. He's _mine!_ _I'm_ the one that knew about the bad man in New York – _I'm_ the one that made you bring him back with us! You can't keep secrets from me when people are trying to hurt him!"

The silence following Sam's tirade was palpable, as though the child had breathed life into the words and those words had taken shape and form and grown into an organic thing, a purple, spotted elephant in the room that no one cared to or dared to acknowledge.

When the tension finally broke, it was dear little Suzie who broke it.

"He's mine too," she sulked possessively, blue-grey eyes glistening with tears.

Sam sniffed and stared angrily, forlornly, at his half-empty plate, tears sliding silently down his pudgy cheeks as his breath hitched with suppressed sobs. He was still angry, but the target of his anger had apparently gotten lost somewhere. It was likely he wanted to direct his ire at his biological father, the elusive and loud convict who was decidedly beyond the ten year-old's reach behind bars in a Maximum Security prison. Dean's attacker, too, was probably high up on Sam's hit list. It was clear to everyone in the room that the child was angry, and upset, and frustrated, and felt unable to express how deep his feelings ran, how much the hurt stung him, how solidly the fear shook through his frame. So he stared ahead and wallowed in his own impotent feelings, his little shoulders heaving with barely suppressed emotion.

"I have an idea," Grammy Tilny suggested lightly. "When you're finished your supper, why don't you take the puppy upstairs to Dean's room. Seems he forgot her when he went upstairs."

Sam peeked at his grandmother through his bangs and offered a shy, dimpled grin.

"He'd like that," he said thickly before wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

888

They say that home is the place where, when you have nowhere else to go, they have to take you in. If the saying were true, then it meant that Dennis's home, his only home, was with his brother, Daniel. Orphaned by the age of 18 and 20, Danny and Dennis were all the family the brothers had left in the whole world, and Danny was the only person Dennis would ever or had ever turned to when life got rough. Danny was a safe harbour, unconditional love, and something else, something deeper, that he would never know, to his little brother, and it was times like these that Dennis found himself wandering like a piece of driftwood towards the familiar shores of his brother's hearth. Two and a half hours away from Phoenix, where local law enforcement officials wouldn't be looking for a man 6'2" with a crushed windpipe for an unsolved mugging attempt.

The drive had been exhausting and near-impossible, his vision blanking out off and on as he struggled for every breath. His throat had swollen so badly that he could scarce squeeze air through his abused windpipe, but he knew better than to seek treatment at a nearby hospital. There would be red flags at all the nearby clinics and ERs to keep an eye out for a man of his basic physical description (masked face notwithstanding) with an injured throat, and Dennis wasn't fool enough to walk into that kind of trouble. Sheer will propelled him onward (though the heavy dose of anti-inflammatories and painkillers he'd taken immediately upon entering the car didn't hurt, either), even when his body insisted that he'd reached the end of the line. He was stubborn to the point of manic, determined to the point of crazy, and desperate enough to suffer through the torturous drive, wheezing like a 90 year-old man the entire way, until he finally reached his big brother's shabby two-bedroom bungalow.

The knock on the front door was sharp and loud, Dennis's knuckles stinging from the impact, but it was worth it when he was greeted by Daniel's clear blue eyes, his kind smile (before it morphed into a concerned frown), his open and waiting arms.

Dennis felt his heart stutter in that familiar, glut-clenching way when he took in the sight of his big brother – so handsome now even as he approached 40, eyes kind and bright and filled with so much hurt it made Dennis ache all over. There were so many ghosts behind that gaze, a thousand deaths suffered by a soul that had been too young to process pain and humiliation and shame without internalizing it. Danny was like a phoenix who burned up with his own self-hatred and was reborn from the ashes, constantly trying to reinvent himself, reform himself, renew his spark of life in spite of decades of being _wrongwrongwrong_. Dennis loved him so much he wanted to peel the skin from his body and grind his bones to dust.

"Dennis," Danny exclaimed, stunned and worried in an instant. "What're you – _Jesus Christ!_ What happened to you?"

Dennis's reply was lost in a wash of agony as his throat worked to form words, the sound dying in a groan.

"Oh my God!" Strong hands grasped him by the shoulders and manoeuvred him through the front door. "Can you breathe?" Danny demanded. "Are you breathing?"

Dennis nodded weakly, the action causing sparks of pain to stab through his abused neck. His big brother manhandled him toward the shabby couch in the living room, forcing him to sit down.

"I'm calling 911." Danny made a move toward the phone but Dennis stopped him by clutching his wrist in a vise-like grip.

"NO!" he croaked, tears of pain springing unbidden to his eyes. "No," he repeated, eyes wide and pleading.

Danny paused and crouched down low so that he was below Dennis's line of vision.

"Den, it looks like someone beat the holy hell out of you," he said solemnly. "You're barely breathing, man!"

"I'm okay," Dennis mouthed soundlessly. "_Please!_"

He watched as his brother chewed on his bottom lip with worry, weighing out his options, trying to decide whether or not to admit defeat or stand his ground. It was a 50/50 chance of him choosing either: Daniel was fiercely protective of his little brother and would move heaven and Earth to see him safe; but he was also a push-over and had a very hard time saying no where his little brother was concerned. In the end the latter won out, and Danny collapsed onto his ass on the floor with a worried sigh.

"Then you gotta talk to me, little brother," he said warily. "Tell me what happened."

Dennis smiled faintly and raised well-manicured hands to mimic writing with a pen and paper. He waited patiently, still struggling for each breath, while Danny fetched him a pen and a pad of paper. Then he took a seat next to him on the couch and waited, his fingers picking nervously at a stray piece of thread on the couch.

Dennis had already planned out, during the drive over, how he would play this. He needed his brother to sympathize with his plight enough to not call the police or paramedics. The lie he had constructed was both pathetic and believable, and he just hoped that it fit in nicely with some of Daniel's secret misconceptions about his little brother.

'_I was going to surprise you,'_ he wrote carefully. '_I took some vacation time and drove down to see you. Got mugged at the ATM machine when I got into town.'_

It was partly true. He had booked time off at work for a "family emergency" on Tuesday, though admittedly it was for the purpose of kidnapping the young hooker, Dean Winchester, and trussing him up in the newly soundproofed basement on Friday. Dennis wasn't stupid: he was a planner. And he knew that people would be connecting dots if Dennis's absence conveniently coincided with Dean's disappearance. It was why he'd opted to make his exit from the work scene on the Tuesday. And with Danny's history of run-ins with the law, the "family emergency" excuse wasn't likely to be questioned. So Dennis was here now, visiting his brother just like he'd told Peter Wesley he would be, though for different reasons. Danny wasn't the one that was in trouble, Dennis was. And Dennis wasn't the one who'd been mugged, but Daniel didn't need to know that, either.

Danny's face darkened with anger when he read his younger brother's tidy scrawl.

"Then why the hell aren't I calling the cops?" he demanded, then softened his tone.

"Dennis, your neck looks real bad. You probably need a trach tube or something. I really should—"

'_NO__,'_ Dennis wrote in block letters, underlining it for added emphasis. _'No hospital! No police!'_

"Why the hell not?" Danny demanded. "It's not as if it's your fault!"

Dennis made a show of looking at his feet, forcing a shamed blush to his cheeks as he feigned embarrassment.

"What is it?" Danny asked gently, voice softening as he reached out to give Dennis's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "What aren't you telling me?"

Dennis bit his lip with faked apprehension and wrote, _'Skinheads. Hate crime.'_

And that did it – he'd taken the bait. Big brother's suspicions confirmed, he leaned forward and gave another gentle squeeze. "Because you're gay?" he hazarded quietly.

Dennis managed a weak nod and tried not to grin at his own cleverness.

Sweet, stupid, gullible Danny. The poor fool had been chewing on the possibility of his little brother being gay for over a decade, but had never had the guts to just come out and ask him. It was a natural conclusion for him to have drawn, Dennis supposed. He hadn't really done much dating, had never had a real girlfriend, and didn't show much interest in the opposite sex. He'd tried pretending when he was in his late teens, but by then Danny had been so lost in his own demons, with the drugs and the Grand Theft Auto and then jail, that the need for pretense had kind of fallen by the wayside. But of course Danny wondered, and of course he'd concluded that his little brother was gay. It was certainly more appealing than assuming his little brother was a paedophile.

"Dennis," Danny practically whined. "You can't let them get away with that, man! I know you think you've got to keep it a secret, or whatever... But it's nothing to be ashamed of."

And Danny would know all about shame, wouldn't he? Dennis thought. Danny's very skin was made up of layer upon layer of shame, a cloak so thick and impenetrable there was no scrubbing it clean. Even after all these years, Dennis could still smell it on him.

It made him hungry.

'_Do you think Dad made me this way?'_ he wrote with practiced hesitance, going for gold and biting his lip in uncertainty.

Danny's eyes squinted in confusion as he read his little brother's words and then he flushed red.

"Jesus, Dennis!" he blurted out angrily, standing up and pacing the shabby room like a caged animal. "No! Fuck no! Why would you even think that?"

It was so wrong to do this to him, but Dennis had long ago lost all ability to connect with anyone on an emotional level. When he wasn't drinking in their pain he wasn't feeling anything at all, and Danny's pain was like a drug. Dragging him kicking and screaming back to those terrible, wonderful childhood years was an addiction Dennis had to indulge in sparingly, lest he force his brother to shut down altogether.

"Dad didn't make you gay!" Danny went on, his hands trembling at his sides as he squeezed them into fists. "For fuck's sake, Dennis, why would you think that?"

'_But I'm not normal,'_ Dennis wrote, casting Danny a pleading look.

Stroll down memory lane with me, big brother. Let's remember together how it felt when you cried and begged and none of it made any difference.

"No one's normal!" Danny scoffed. "Least _you_ didn't end up in jail!"

_Because Dad ruined you,_ Dennis thought, trying to suppress a grin. _Because he tore you open and bled you dry and left nothing behind but the broken tatters of your soul. Because you're weak and you turned to drugs and got caught._

"Hell, Dennis, _I'm_ not gay and I'm the one he—" Danny choked back the rest of his reply, grinding his teeth like a carnivore chewing to the deep marrow of a bone.

_You're the one he loved,_ Dennis thought. _You're the one he __**saw**__ every day. You're the one that mattered._

Danny paused in his pacing and looked at Dennis with such mixed emotions warring in his beautiful blue eyes: rage and pain and loss and, so fresh and intoxicating, shame and humiliation.

"Christ, Dennis!" he whispered harshly. "Why'd you gotta bring that up, huh? Why can't you just let it the fuck go!"

As if Danny had ever let it go. Danny who spent most of his twenties in the gutter jumped up on heroine. Danny who's been in and out of jail more times than a five-dollar hooker. Danny who lived alone in a piece of shit rented house and worked as a janitor because he couldn't get a decent job with his colourful criminal record.

But Danny's always been good at self-delusion, and he always tried so damned hard to function like the rest of the animals playing at being people. No matter how hard Danny fell he always picked himself up again. Went to rehab. Got a job; paid his taxes. He even had a girlfriend now, and they had a baby on the way.

"It's over, Dennis," Danny said forcefully, then softened as he retook his seat on the couch and placed a gentle hand on his brother's shoulder. "It's over. It happened a long time ago, and yeah, it was fucked up and awful. But it's over man. Dad was a monster, but he's gone now, and he didn't make you this way."

_No, he didn't make me this way,_ Dennis thought. _**You**__ did._

Crying in the night as the headboard in the next room thump-thump-thumped against the wall behind Dennis's head, pleading brokenly, 'No please stop dad no please don't!'

Dad never tried keeping it down, never bothered being quiet. Dennis might as well have been a light fixture in the room for all his father noticed him. Never laid a hand on him. Never cast his eyes in his youngest son's direction with that hungry, lustful gaze. Never made any inappropriate advances. Never knew he existed except as another body to clothe and a mouth to feed.

For months Dennis had lain quietly in his bed, listening to his brother's pleas, their father's grunts, and the constant banging on the wall, and had wondered what it all meant. Too young to have much of an understanding about sex, but knowing from school and teachers' dire warnings that what happened in Danny's room at night was the kind of thing he wasn't supposed to tell anyone about. Dennis's toes had curled in fear and something else, something he couldn't explain, as he'd listened to the almost nightly ritual in the room next to his.

Dad loved Danny oh, so much.

'_You see what you do to me? See what you make me do?'_

Dennis had wondered about those sounds, about his Dad's blissed out moaning and grunting, about the raw hunger and need he heard in that voice, about the sated sighs that followed. He'd listened and wondered: wondered why Danny's tears made Dad so happy. Why his pleas spurred him on to be rougher, the banging always growing louder when Danny begged, 'pleasepleasedadno!'

When, at twelve, Dennis came home early from a sleepover one night to find Danny sprawled on the kitchen table, their father pounding into him from behind, his large hands clamped down over Danny's smaller ones, pushing them wide at his sides, pinning them to the table as his hips jerked roughly, Dennis hadn't wondered anymore. His eyes open for the very first time, his insides roiling at the vision splayed out before him, his groin burning hot with sudden understanding, Dennis finally saw what his father saw.

Danny was beautiful. Danny was perfection personified, flawless skin over long angles, skin and bone and so much flesh, panting in pain or maybe want, his plush lips parted, his gorgeous eyes squeezed shut tight.

And Dennis understood in that moment that everything their father had said was true. Danny made him this way. Dennis knew it because he could feel it pulling below his navel, he could feel the first stirrings of desire in his young loins, and _this was it_.

This was perfection. And he'd touched himself for the first time that night, lying in his bed and tugging at himself and crying at the rush of blood that felt _sofuckinggood_, remembering Danny's tears and all that beautiful skin, remembering the pleading, and loving his brother so much he spilled over his hand when his orgasm hit.

And he'd known, at age twelve, that he'd never love anyone more, would never hate anyone more, than he did Danny, for what he'd become.

Dennis had been chasing the vision of that fourteen year-old boy, splayed open and broken on the kitchen table, begging and crying and so fucking beautiful, from that moment onward.

Dean Winchester was going to be so perfect when Dennis finally claimed him. With a little more time, more careful planning, more patience, Dennis would be able to put this incident behind him, covering his tracks and smoothing out the creases, and then he'd make his move. Then he'd finally be able to touch that vision. Dean was so perfect, and so bright and wrong, just like Danny. So perfect and vibrant and dirty and Dennis knew he would cry so pretty, would beg so beautifully, would die with such exquisite grace that Dennis would finally find peace.

"Come on," Danny's voice said soothingly, breaking Dennis from his reverie. "Let's get you settled in the spare bedroom, huh? Then I'll go to the pharmacy and see if I can get something to help out with the pain."

Dennis nodded, feeling the tension ease out of his body. Everything would be all right.

888

The lamp was still on in Dean's room when Sam eased his way quietly inside. His knock had gone unanswered and, impatient with a wriggling puppy in his arms, the ten year-old had taken the lack of a response as permission to enter (because really, if Dean didn't want him to come in he most definitely would have said 'no'). When he poked his shaggy mopped head into his big brother's room, it was to find said brother sprawled in a seated position against the headboard of his bed, propped up by a host of pillows with an open book resting on his lap, fingers lax, eyes closed, and jaw hanging open in a silent snore.

Dean was out cold, and in the middle of playing catch-up on his homework, it appeared.

Sam grinned and made his way to his brother's bedside on silent feet. Quietly and gently as he could, he lifted the book from Dean's hands and eased it away from his lap, placing it on the bedside table and then replacing it with a wildly wriggling Lucy, who'd had enough of being held.

The puppy scrambled up the sleeping teen's chest, her padded feet weighing almost nothing at all, before she paused at Dean's chin and began licking enthusiastically.

"Mmmhuh?" Dean mumbled blearily as the sensation of velvet wet puppy tongue drew him from his slumber.

"Thought you might want some company," Sam whispered.

"Sam?" Dean asked through sleep-swollen eyes. He peered up at his baby brother slowly through heavy lids. "Wha'ss goin' on?"

"You fell asleep," Sam explained mildly. "I brought Lucy up to see you. I think she missed you," he added with a bright, dimpled grin.

Dean grinned in return, lazy against the pillows and looking just the tiniest bit goofy. His hair was flat on his brow, without the usual styling gel to keep it in those oh-so-cool spikes, and the bed-head look made Dean look about twelve instead of almost-fifteen. He pushed his head back into the pillows and did a one-armed cat-like stretch, yawning so big his jaw popped, before easing back bonelessly into the bedding.

"Don't tell your Grandma I said this," Dean said in his sleep-raspy voice, "but this dog is pretty awesome."

"Yeah," Sam agreed wistfully.

They sat together in companionable silence as the puppy toddled around on the bed, tripping over her own ears, chasing her tail, tipping over onto her side on her wobbly legs, getting caught up in the blankets, and barking at the bundled mess beneath her when Dean tormented her with a probing hand under the blanket.

"She's cute," Sam said.

Dean just grunted non-committally, which Sam figured was his way of saying yes.

"Hey Dean?"

"Hmmm?" Dean replied absently, obviously still sleepy.

"Can I sleep in here tonight? You know, because of the puppy...?" Which was Sam Wesley secret code for 'because you almost died and I never want you to leave my sight ever again.'

Dean shrugged, fluent in all his little brother's secret codes.

"Sure," he allowed. "'Cos of the puppy."

Sam grinned and crawled up the bed, easing his way under the covers with a contented sigh.

"But just to warn you," Dean added. "Any sign that you're about to cuddle me and I'll sick Lucy on your ass. I can already tell she's got the makings of a seriously awesome attack dog."

Said attack dog was mashing her wrinkly puppy face into the blankets, her pudgy bum high in the air, curled tail wagging madly as she yipped into the bedding. Then, as if sensing that they were talking about her, she raised her head with a snuff, sneezed, and toppled over onto her side.

"We should rename her," Sam mock agreed. "She looks more like a Cujo than a Lucy."

"Yeah, bite me."

It didn't take long for the puppy to tire herself out. Both boys played with her until their eyes were drooping, and then when she settled between their pillows, Dean turned out the light and the brothers slunk silently into the darkness, each content to be home and safe and together.

"Hey Dean?"

"Hmmm?"

It was easier to voice his fears under the cover of darkness, Sam thought.

"You scared me," he admitted in a whisper. "I thought—"

"It's okay, little brother." And when he said it like that, it was hard not to believe him, especially because he couldn't see the lie in his eyes when the lights were off.

"I know it got kinda hairy for a little while there," Dean admitted. "But it's gonna take more than a dude in a mask to take Dean Winchester down."

"But he almost—" Sam protested.

"He didn't," Dean assured him. "It was dumb of me to be out in the dark like that with those damned headphones in my ears. If I hadda been smart, I wouldn't have brought the walkman. Rookie mistake. But it won't happen again, Sam."

Sam wasn't convinced.

"And hey, even with my arm in a sling, I still kicked his ass." Sam could practically hear the grin in his brother's voice. "I bet there's some guy out there cryin' into his beer right now 'cos he got his ass handed to him by a fourteen year-old with a bum arm. An' he'll be eating out of a straw for the next few weeks, too, so I call this one a win."

"I guess," Sam allowed reluctantly.

It was silent for a few more moments, during which time Dean shuffled from his left side onto his back.

"Hey Dean?"

The aggrieved sigh was loud and plaintive in the darkness. Then, with practiced patience, "Yeah, Sammy?"

"I love you," Sam whispered before chomping nervously onto his bottom lip.

The pregnant pause before Dean managed a reply was painful, but when it came it brought both laughter and relief.

"That's it," Dean said with an exasperated growl. "Sick 'im, Lucy!"

Sam fell asleep that night with a grin on his face and a puppy on his pillow.

TBC...

**End Notes:**

I thought it would be best to end this on a more positive note (rather than leaving you all with the sour taste of Dennis in your mouths). I'm sorry to have plagued y'all with that monster's inner workings, but there's a context to everything and his was like a sickness I needed to purge to make myself feel clean again. Coming up we'll have a few things to look forward to: more puppy schmoop; Margaret meets her match; Angela turns 14; and Dean gets in touch with the left side of his brain.

Please keep your eyes open for .Dakota.'s upcoming fic, which is an off-shoot from "In Shadow." It's not finished yet, but she has written it as part of this 'verse and I'm just tickled pink! It's untitled as of yet, but I'll let you know once it's been completed and posted here!


	27. Time Stamp

**Chapter Notes:**

I am sincerely sorry for taking this long with the update. RL has been a bit of a bitch lately, and I kind of had a meltdown. I've been steering away from the world of fan fic to try to get myself grounded again, and the result was a big hiatus.

However, because I love you guys so much, and because you've been so good to me, I have a special treat. A time stamp! Regretfully, there's no Sam in this chapter, but another character you've been missing makes an appearance (and how!) so I hope it makes up for it.

The events of this chapter are my gift to you (because so many of you have been begging for it).

Any inconsistencies with the show are entirely the result of my laziness.

_

* * *

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_New York: April, 2006_

_"Sometimes you gotta take one for the team."_

Dean watched his brother go, chuckling to himself that his ginormous, 6'4" baby brother could be such a pansy about hooking up with a hot chick – and _damn_, was that Sarah a hot chick. He was pretty certain that the kid couldn't be proportional, because, while he may be a giant in stature, he surely had a distinct lack of balls. Maybe he was like one of those Greek statues, strong and athletic and with teeny shriveled junk like a newborn baby's. That must be it. Either way, it was proof enough that Sam was some kind of genetic experiment hatched from an egg, and that they couldn't possibly be genetically related. Dean Winchester, lady-killer extraordinaire, could not have a brother who was afraid to get laid. That was just... wrong.

Then again, he wasn't entirely altruistic in his desire to get Sam shacked up for the night. True, the kid needed to unwind in a serious way. But more than that, Dean needed Sam distracted and gone for the next few hours, so that he could take care of some business of his own without getting the patented Sam Winchester bitchface for his troubles. Plus, Dean's business was the kind that said little brother didn't need to know about. Private, big brother stuff. The business of the Talesca murders and the weird-ass, creepy painting could wait until morning.

Wasting no time, Dean parked himself at the tiny dining table in the motel room and fired up the laptop. He ran through his usual search engines, and, having picked up a trick or two from Sammy with his mad hacking skills, was able to break into the DMV's database. A few keystrokes here and a click there, and Dean had found his man.

_Yahtzee!_

He smirked a grim smile, feeling darkness bubble within him as he tossed on his leather jacket and snatched his keys from the table. With Sammy busy (and hopefully _getting busy_-busy), Dean found himself free to look up an old friend.

888

The bar was pretty crowded for a Thursday night, but that wasn't surprising. _Randy's_ was pretty popular with the New York U crowd, even if it was a bit of a trek for most of them. That was the thing about New York – you could get pretty much anywhere you needed to be by hopping on a bus or climbing down to the subway. Still, Vincent wished like hell the college kids would go somewhere else; he hated putting up with their snot-nosed uppity bullshit, all rich and entitled and looking their noses down at him. Whenever he could he took advantage of his height and weight (not proud of the spare tire that had, over the last ten years, grown into more of an inner tube), using them to intimidate and bully. He liked it when the punks got drunk and rowdy – it meant that he could crack skulls without losing his job. Then he would smirk and enjoy the way the smug little bastards slithered off like the useless sacks of skin that they were.

It was a pretty laid back sort of place, Vincent mused. The music was 'retro,' with the odd mix of current alternative hits littered in here and there. The smoky atmosphere was complemented by the rough wood of the bar, the well-worn floor that was in need of a refinish, the winding up-and-down levels of ground in various pocketed sections of space. It gave patrons the chance to have some privacy, even in the crowded bar, and was great for large parties, with so many different nooks and crannies to camp out in while nursing a beer or two.

Vincent had liked the place much better when it was a dive bar/restaurant that no one frequented, though the mob affiliations and frequent drug deals in the back rooms might have had something to do with it. But then the boss man, Hugo, had brought in a damned consultant and spruced up the joint to attract new clientele. The crack whores and pushers had been kicked to the curb to make way for spoiled rich kids looking to guzzle away Daddy's money.

Sometimes – only sometimes – Vinnie would get fed up with the whole thing and find a mark among the crowd. Someone rich and pompous and stupid enough to draw his ire. And he'd follow the stupid shit out of the bar, drag him into the nearby alley, and beat the unlucky kid within an inch of his life. Nab his wallet. Spit on him for good measure. And leave with a feeling of triumph, having shown the trussed up piece of shit exactly how much he gave a crap about the trust fund that made said kid better than the people that served him.

He was always good at finding someone to vent his anger on.

Tonight, though? Tonight there was a bit of a show happening over at the pool tables, and he couldn't help the grin that formed on his grizzled face as he watched the pumped up dandies getting hustled for all they were worth over in the back. He always kept an eye to the tables, watched the money changing hands, in case the mood should strike him to relieve the drunken gambling co-eds from their hard-earned Daddy's money. There were four of them in near-matching attire, CK button-down shirts and designer jeans, dressed casual but oozing money. The beer flowed freely between them as they clapped each other on the back and laughed jovially about whatever-the-fuck kids that age laughed at. And the guy in the leather jacket, who so clearly was not one of them, with his faded, torn jeans and wrong-side-of-the-tracks aura, was laughing good naturedly with them, sharing in their jokes and gulping down beer after beer. Dark blonde hair and a face too damned pretty to be real in a movie star kind of way, working them into complacency with his easy smile, the occasional stagger of fake inebriation, and losing just enough games to avoid suspicion. The guy was going to milk them good and proper and Vincent couldn't help but be pleased. If the kid weren't too old for his tastes, he might even have been tempted to tear off a slice.

By the smouldering half-glances the hustler kept shooting his way, he thought the kid just might be up for it, too.

888

It was funny how the world just kept on turning. For Dean, stumbling in a drugged haze through that swanky motel corridor fourteen years ago, trembling in terror for his very life and finding salvation in Sam and Sam's family, had been an earth-shattering, life-altering event. To put it plainly, the world fucking stopped in that moment. It just stopped and started turning in a completely different direction. 180 degrees.

But New York was just like he'd left it. Too crowded, too busy, too dirty, and too much the fucking same. And Vinnie was just as ugly and mean as he'd ever been, still bouncing at the local bar, though it was called Randy's now, and still defiling everything he looked at by being a Grade A Prick. He hadn't changed a fucking bit, except for getting older and fatter. But the muscle was still there, and his hair was still scarily dark-black, with just the hint of grey at his temples. Still angry like the world owed him something. Still able to make Dean feel about three feet tall, his balls shrinking up with the memories of pain and humiliation, with just the briefest glance of those dark eyes on him.

When this was over Dean was going to take a shower in battery acid to wash away the feel of those eyes. But at least, Dean thought with relief, Vinnie didn't appear to have recognized him.

He left the bar after collecting his winnings, half-hoping that Vinnie would pull the same old mugger gag and follow him outside. He'd been known to do it back in the day, following some drunk schmuck with his pockets full of cash and robbing him blind after leaving him a bloody mess down a dark alley. Then Vin'd come back to the apartment with a fresh supply of blow and cackle over his victory over the yuppy scum while Dean got on his knees and earned his keep with his pretty, pretty mouth.

The Colt 1911 was reassuring in its solidity at the small of Dean's back, tucked away into his jeans, and he found himself hoping that Vinnie would give him a reason to use it. _Come on out and get me, asshole. Make a move. Throw a punch at me, you sick pervert motherfucker!_

But Vinnie must have had some sense, because he didn't follow. Maybe he valued his job too much to risk getting caught, or maybe he sensed that Dean was more trouble than he was worth. Shame, really.

Dean gulped as he made his way down familiar streets.

This was it. He was back in New York, with his favourite gun and a heart full of hate, readying himself to get some payback. Years of waking up in a cold sweat, of remembering those hard, meaty hands pounding him into the dirt, remembering the cruel jeers and hateful taunts reinforcing how worthless he was, how insignificant, how invisible.

'_I could wrap my hands around your pretty little neck and snuff you out – pop your head off like a damned dandelion – bury you in a dumpster somewhere. And no one would ever notice.'_

Vinnie had a lot to answer for. Dean had a lifetime of anger, as well as a decade and change worth of combat training, to dish out a little bit of justice, and while the Colt at his back was reassuring, it was only meant to be a safety net. Dean wasn't going in there nekkid, after all. And considering how underhanded a fighter Vinnie was reputed to be, using chairs and beer bottles and _security batons_ to get the job done when fists alone weren't enough, it would have been stupid to go in without the gun.

This was a fight Dean was going to win.

But Dean was in top form, had been fighting monsters bigger and stronger and far scarier than Vincent for almost a decade, and he knew that, this time around, he could wipe the floor with the old pervert. And he had every intention of doing so.

Finding Vinnie's new place had been easy; breaking into it was even easier. The lock-picking kit was as good as a security pass in the run-down shithole Vinnie called home these days, and Dean made his way inside silently, decidedly ignoring the shaking in his hands as he stepped into the semi-dark apartment. There was a light on in the bedroom at the end of the hall, and immediately Dean could hear the shower running. The pair of worn, boy's size 9 sneakers in front of the front door let Dean know right off the bat that Vinnie wasn't living alone.

_Poor stupid, fucking kid_, Dean thought miserably. _Probably_ _in the shower making himself clean for when the big man gets home_.

God, he really wanted to bust a cap in Vinnie's ass.

Instead, he made himself busy taking a quick perusal of the apartment. The place was pretty tidy, which meant the unknown quantity in the shower, with the size 9 feet, was likely keeping house while Vinnie, the lazy bastard, languished in his own vice, snorting the week's paycheque up his nose.

Down the hall Dean found a single bedroom with a Queen-sized bed. Made, in spite of the faintly lingering scent of sex in the air. It instantly transported Dean back in time, merging the present scene with one of fourteen years past. He could remember the feel of those cheap sheets against his knees as Vinnie held him down and...

Dean sucked in a gasped breath and held it, nostrils flaring, as he reigned in his memories and tramped them down deep inside to the black hole/garbage dump where all his most unpleasant memories and feelings went. Sealed it tight with heaps of denial and safeguarded with neon-yellow warning tape marked 'Biohazard.' That toxic waste dump of angst was probably poisoning his soul with radioactive material, but Dean was fairly certain he'd rather blow his brains out than spend another minute in fucking therapy, and he sure as hell wasn't going to say a goddamned word about this shit to his Dad or Sam. Talking about your feelings meant you had to _feel_ them, and since Dean was perfectly happy to just bury them and then pretend they didn't exist, he figured his method was far more effective in moving the fuck on.

And beating the shit out of the people that scarred you for life could be totally therapeutic. Dean was sure of it. He'd read it somewhere, or seen it on TV. Probably an action flick. But the point was, he was going to let his fists do the talking and feeling, in a non-sexual and totally bust-you-up kind of way, and that was going to _feel_ all kinds of good. _How'd you like them apples, Dr. Oxley?_

He did a quick search of the apartment for any weapons, satisfied himself that the gun in the bedside drawer was the only firearm in the place, and quickly unloaded the chamber of its bullets, pocketing them and replacing the empty gun with a satisfied smirk. Then he silently made his way back to the living room and deposited himself on the couch to await Vinnie's return.

When the boy emerged from the shower and appeared in the living room, he was fresh-faced and damp-haired, black strands sticking to his brow as his large brown eyes rounded wide in surprise at seeing Dean waiting for him. He didn't scream, though. Didn't make a move to run or defend himself. He just gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he fought to get his breathing back under control as his skinny frame trembled slightly.

"Did-did Vinnie send you?" the boy asked cautiously. "Because he didn't say anything about..."

Dean had to fight to control his gag reflex when he realized what the boy was really asking, and what that implied. He thought Dean was a fucking john, and that Vinnie had just given him the keys to the apartment to have his way with this kid. _Christ_, what the fuck kind of habits had the sick old bastard got into over the years, that he didn't even have the decency to stick around to make sure that his boytoy didn't get raped or murdered in his own fucking bed?

"What's your name, kid?" Dean asked instead of answering.

"Carlos," the boy replied tentatively, making his way to the couch and sitting carefully away from Dean, but close enough to be within reach. Keeping his distance but making himself available. Dean thought he might be sick.

"Hi Carlos," Dean replied with a tight smile. "I'm Dean."

Carlos's nervousness seemed to abate somewhat, either from the soothing tone of Dean's voice, or the sincerity bleeding through his green eyes. Whatever it was, Dean was glad for it, because he decided in that moment that there was no way in hell he was leaving the kid here with Vinnie when he was finished. He was gonna kick some ass and then he was gonna save this poor, stupid, unlucky kid before the brute pimped him out to a murderer or killed him in a drunken rage.

"Hey, don't sweat it kid," Dean assured him. "I'm not here to see you. My business is with His Ugliness, King Hairychest."

Carlos snorted a laugh and then quickly turned his face away to hide his amusement. He probably wasn't used to people making fun of Vinnie. By the mildly terrified look that suddenly stole its way across his tanned face, it was also likely that he expected Dean to report the laughter back to Vinnie. Laughing at Vinnie was never good – Dean knew from experience. Laughing at Vinnie led to the kind of punishment that left you crying and begging and hurting for days.

"Hey-hey, it's okay," Dean placated. "I'm not gonna get you in trouble, Carlos. You can bad mouth the old fucker all you want and I'm not gonna say a damned word to him. Except, you know, to insult him myself. To his face. While I kick the crap out of him."

Big brown eyes opened impossibly wider and the Adam's apple bobbed again on Carlos's skinny neck.

"H-how did you get in here?" Carlos asked cautiously as he inched his way backwards on the couch to put more distance between himself and the stranger next to him.

"I was about to ask the same question," a gruff voice demanded sharply from the doorway.

Dean rolled his head towards the newcomer, plastering on his brightest grin.

"Well heya, Vin. Long time no see."

888

That punk-ass pretty boy from Randy's was in _his_ fucking apartment, talking to _his_ fucking twink. Vinnie was going to pound his face into the carpet and make him lick up his own piss, the cocky, arrogant sonofabitch.

"What the fuck are you doing in here?" Vinnie demanded as he tossed his keys onto the counter in the kitchenette and pulled his trusty baton from the back of his jeans.

Tall, blonde and handsome, with what Vinnie could clearly see were luscious cocksucker lips, was completely unphased. He tilted his chin up and grinned winsomely, and damn if he didn't have a movie-star smile that could charm the panties off a nun. Big, pretty green eyes, too. Familiar, even...

"Is that a baton in your hand," Cocksucker quipped lightly, "or are you just happy to see me?"

Vinnie would almost have taken the tone for playful if it weren't for the fire burning ice cold in those wide green eyes. The pretty boy was sprawled casually on the couch, his arms stretched out over the seatback, easy as you please, without a care in the world for the baton that Vinnie was gripping tightly in his hands. He probably thought he could make a fast one on the old man, relying on his youth as if it automatically made him stronger in a fight. Well Vinnie had broken more skulls and kicked more ass than this arrogant shit could dream about, and he sure as hell wasn't going to let some movie star-looking dipshit steal his dope.

"You ain't my type," Vinnie warned as he brandished the weapon with a menacing pat to his open palm. "Now I'll give you five seconds to tell me what you're doing in my fucking apartment before I break your face open."

Pretty Boy pursed his lips in mock consideration, quirking his mouth at one corner and then peeking up beneath impossibly long lashes with practiced, languid grace.

"Not your type, huh?" he queried with a raised eyebrow. "Time was, I would have been exactly what the doctor ordered. In fact," he sat up straight, looking up intently with those steely green eyes, "I'm pretty sure I'd'a driven you fuckin' _crazy_."

Vinnie's mouth went suddenly dry and his palms began to sweat.

"With this mouth," Pretty Boy said, trailing a thumb along his plush bottom lip. "Right here."

_Fuuuuck_, but Vinnie would know that mouth anywhere.

"Dean?" he gulped, heart battering against his chest as a flood of memories washed over him, prickling his skin with ghosted sensations of soft, flawless skin and that sinful mouth driving him to distraction. He saw the boy's cocksure grin as he bent skinny limbs to the task of fixing dinner, throwing his blonde head back to laugh at his own jokes, or to allow Vinnie better access to his neck so he could taste the sweet flesh. He saw bright green eyes glistening with tears as Vinnie pushed his way into an already red and raw hole. He saw the timid, frightened grin as he bade Vinnie goodbye at an exorbitantly-priced hotel where a nameless john had fucking _taken his boy away_.

"Dean?" he asked again, his voice a rasp of cat tongue over sandpaper.

"Yahtzee."

It _was_ Dean. If those sinful cocksucking lips weren't a dead giveaway, the too-pretty eyes were. They were the same pretty green, with long, girly lashes and deep, heavy lids. They were the same eyes that showed everything and nothing: perfect windows to the boy's soul as much as they were impassive masks that he hid behind. But he'd grown up a lot, Vinnie could see. His face had matured into something more masculine, more defined. His jaw was strong and stubbled, his cheekbones higher, more pronounced. He'd grown into his nose, too – though it'd always been a pretty nose. But now it suited his whole face better, sealing off the ruggedly handsome, sexy movie star look he had going. And with the broad shoulders and the bad-ass leather coat, there was almost no sign of the skinny teenager who'd fallen to his knees on command and taken Vinnie's cock like a fucking pro.

And now Vinnie didn't know whether he wanted to strangle him with his bare fucking hands or hug him close and never let go. _Dean_. His fucking Dean – alive and beautiful and larger than fucking life. So many night's he'd lain awake thinking of that boy, that gorgeous boy, being mutilated by some rich sicko and dumped in a landfill where no one would ever find him. He'd lain in bed and hated himself for taking Dean to that place, for leaving him with a stranger who he'd convinced himself had murdered the boy. And then the police had found poor little Ricky's mutilated body and Vinnie had been so sure that that was how Dean had gone too – that the rich fucker had hacked up a couple of rent boys to get his rocks off. Because there'd been strands of blonde hair on the corpse, the police said. Transfer, they said. Dean's hair, Vinnie thought. He'd been so sure of it.

But he could see now that he was wrong. Dean hadn't been murdered by the john. He hadn't been harmed at all, apparently. He'd probably gotten the best fuck of his life and had offered to trade up for a cushier lifestyle. After all, if the john could afford to fly in all the way from Phoenix for one weekend of screwing, offering the kind of cash he'd forked out, then he could probably afford to keep Dean in far fancier digs than the ones Vinnie had. It would be just like the little whore to offer his ass up to the highest bidder.

Relief made way for rage, hot and prickling beneath his skin and suddenly Vinnie wanted to pound the self-satisfied smile right off that too pretty face. He wanted to make him regret every day he'd let Vinnie think he was dead while he was off living it up with his new, rich sugar daddy. He wanted to wrap his hands around that pale throat and crush his windpipe, force him to his knees and make him open wide.

"And I see we've come full circle," Dean announced smugly, a knowing glint in his eyes. "You wanna work on your poker face, man. I just watched you run the whole gamut of emotions, with the shock and then the sadness and then the remorse and _then_," he held up his index finger and grinned at Carlos on the couch, "my personal favourite: the _anger_."

He stood from the couch, head tilted up just slightly so he could meet Vinnie's gaze, and folded his arms across his chest.

"Bet you want to take a swing or two at me, huh? Slippin' away like that, right under your nose? No phone call. No note. Just –" he made a double-sweeping motion with his hands. "Poof. Vanished. _Kaiser Soze_."

"You still think you're fuckin funny," Vinnie growled.

Dean gave an innocent shrug, cockier than ever, and grinned a grin so cold it made his cheek twitch at his left nostril.

"I have my moments," he admitted. But he wasn't smiling anymore. It was like a dark veil descended over his face, the lights going out in his eyes, as he stared blankly ahead at Vinnie with a look of pure, unadulterated hatred. It was a look of liquid loathing, fluid in all its frozen rigidity, like an eel slithering beneath the skin before it turned to stone.

And then without warning Vinnie was being slammed up against the wall, his left arm effortlessly swatted away while the baton was wrenched from his right hand after a quick bone-crushing one-two-three crush of his wrist against the wall. Vinnie barely blinked between one moment and the next: he's standing with his most menacing scowl, baton in hand and readying himself to teach his wayward whore a lesson, and then like a flash he's disarmed and has got his own weapon pressed against his throat in Dean's vice-like grip. The boy had always been graceful, even when he'd been skinny and gangly with new growth, but now he'd gained something like predatory speed and agility, lethal snap-sharpness to his movements, efficient strength that was as breathtaking as it was completely disabling.

Within about three seconds Vinnie was completely immobilized and at Dean Winchester's mercy. And he thought, maybe, all those times he'd made that pretty boy cry had a price to them after all.

888

In all the years he'd imagined facing his childhood abuser, Dean had never imagined it would be so easy to take him down. Vinnie had always loomed like some kind of huge Colossus in his memory: an immoveable Man-Wall of solid muscle and bone, sneering cruelty backed by brute strength. But as strong as he was, the reality of it was that Vincent was just a man – a man who liked to prey upon little boys. And while Dean might have liked to think of himself as being so well-trained that he could fight his way through anything, at any age, at the heart of it he'd been a gangly kid who, at best, knew how to throw a punch. He'd been tougher than most kids his age. Dean knew that rationally. But he'd still just been a kid, and no matter how hard he'd fought, he hadn't stood a chance against someone as big as Vinnie.

But now. Now he had that motherfucking scumbag pervert up against a wall, choking for breath as his own weapon of choice was crushed against his throat – the very same weapon that had haunted Dean's nightmares for the better part of a decade. There was a certain justice in it, though Dean supposed he could find other, crueler and far more fitting ways to punish Vinnie with that infernal baton. He wouldn't. Maybe. Probably. But the fact that he could, that it was within his power to do so, made him feel euphoric and dizzy.

"This what you want?" Vinnie croaked as he struggled to break Dean's chokehold. "Big tough man getting revenge 'cos old Vinnie gave you a booboo?"

Anger flared up white hot beneath his skin and Dean could feel his chest heaving with the enormity of everything the man before him symbolized.

"Something like that," Dean intoned quietly, jaw flexing as he gritted his teeth and applied more pressure at Vinnie's throat just to hear the man sputter and gag. "And how 'bout him, huh?" Indicating Carlos. "Carlos? You give him a booboo too? You use this on him?"

The boy in question squirmed uncomfortably in his seat on the couch, unsure what to do as the strange power play played out before him. At Dean's words, though, his face went pale, eyes snapping instinctively towards the baton at Vinnie's throat with ghosted visions of horror and fear.

Growling, Dean tightened his grip.

"You sick sonofabitch!" Dean could feel his face flaming with the heat of his ire and he didn't care. "You did, didn't you? You played out your sick power-trip games on that poor kid, just like you did with me!"

It couldn't be possible, but Vinnie paused in his struggling to leer.

"Best fuck of your life," he chuckled with a choked-off breath.

It felt like the world stopped in that moment. Dean could hear his own blood rushing in torrents through his ears, could hear his panted breaths of rage echoing through his head, and he knew that this was the moment where he could do one of two things: he could kill Vinnie now, press the barrel of his Colt against the fucker's head and paint the walls with his brains; or he could lay down his weapons and beat the man senseless with his bare hands. Might still kill him, all things considered, but it would be man against man, skill against skill. A fair fight – fairer than any chance Vinnie had ever given any of the poor saps to come under his fists.

Kill him now and wipe this sick stain off the face of the Earth. Or pound him down until his knuckles bled and the man's face looked like ground hamburger.

Dean eased up his grip and tossed the baton across the room.

"We're gonna do this," he said soberly. "You and me. You're gonna fight me like a man, _for once in your fuckin' life_, and I'm gonna teach you a little something about Karma."

Vinnie gasped for breath, his broad shoulders sagging as he sucked in greedy gulps of air, before straightening with a cackle.

"Is this gonna make you feel better, Dean?" Vinnie taunted. "Gonna reaffirm your masculinity by beating up the man who fucked you up the ass, used you like the whore that you are? Cos I gotta tell ya, you'll be giving little Carlos here some seriously false hope."

Dean tossed his leather jacket on the couch, rolled up his sleeves, and offered Carlos – who was huddled on the couch and trembling with fear – an encouraging wink.

"I'm gonna give Carlos something better than hope," Dean promised. "I'm gonna get him away from _you_."

Neither of them had expected that response. Vinnie's expression darkened with brewing thunder, while something in Carlos's expression became distinctly hopeful.

"I been where you are, kid," Dean told him, keeping a weather eye on Vinnie. "And if you don't get out soon, it's gonna end with you in a body bag – I promise you that."

"Don't give him the 'Choose Life' speech, Dean! He's not your concern!" Vinnie growled.

"I got out before it killed me," Dean told the boy, ignoring Vinnie's threat. "I'll help get you somewhere safe. And as an added bonus, you get to watch me kick the crap out of him. Sound good?"

The poor kid didn't dare reply, too afraid of what Vinnie would do to him if Dean lost.

Dean made sure he didn't lose. His attack was fast and brutal, sharp strikes to the throat, kidneys, nose. A spurt of blood and then a geyser flooding down Vinnie's lips and chin. He howled in rage and pain when Dean kicked out his knees with a sickening pop. He coughed and choked when Dean struck with lethal grace at his windpipe. By the time he was on the ground, huddled in on himself to protect his middle from the rain of blows, Vinnie had failed to land a single punch. Dean pummeled him with all the rage fourteen years of stewing could produce.

"Fuckin' left me there!" Dean raged as he lifted a steel-toed boot to swing hard and fast at Vinnie's tender belly. "Dropped me off with a fuckin' psycho killer!" Another kick. "I never woulda laid eyes on him if you hadn't – " Another kick. "_Fuckin' ruined me!_" Another kick.

He lost himself in the haze of violence, his head swimming with heat as his body rained down a series of blows on autopilot. He could hear himself shouting, saying all the things he'd wanted to say but had never given voice to.

_You fuckin' ruined me, you fuckin' dickhead!... I was just a kid and you hurt me – you__** liked**__ hurting me! ... Couldn't sleep at night 'cos I could still feel you in the bed next to me... Because of you __**he **__found me!... You got no idea – no idea – what you did!... You evil sick sonofabitch!_

A steady stream of verbal diarrhea spewed from his lips as he beat Vinnie down into the carpet. He wouldn't have stopped but for the buzzing in his ears, and then a bony hand on his wrist pulling him back.

"_**Dean!"**_

Sound came back to him like a punch to the gut.

"_**Dean, stop! You're going to kill him!"**_

Skinny arms tugged at him, trying to pull him back. Dean stilled, stumbled back a few steps, and looked at the damage he'd done. Vinnie was a moaning mass of blood and bruises on the floor. His crotch was dark, stained with urine, and his face was a blur of red and purple. The man whimpered and moaned as he huddled in on himself, unable or unwilling to rise after the beating he'd just taken.

Dean's shoulders heaved with the heavy, exhilarated breaths of exertion, of victory. And maybe it shouldn't feel so good to have reduced Vinnie to a sniveling, writhing mass of bodily fluids on the floor – the wise mentor-types on TV were always saying that revenge didn't solve anything, that violence didn't solve anything – but right now Dean felt like he could walk on fucking water. He was light as a feather, his body thrumming with euphoric energy as he listened to the pathetic noises coming from Vinnie.

"There," Dean said with a heavily exhaled breath. "It's done. I'm done." Then he grinned. "That felt pretty awesome!"

He turned to look at the poor teenager beside him and was surprised to see that the look of fear was nowhere to be seen. In its place was something darker, something that seemed to personify the way Dean felt. There was satisfaction in those big, brown eyes. Satisfaction and relief. Then he turned back to look at Vinnie again, wondering if he'd made the right choice.

"I should kill you," Dean muttered without heat or venom this time. "Save some other poor kid from fallin' under your boots." He tilted his head and watched as Vinnie trembled with pain.

"That's what my dad would do. He'd waste your sorry ass and be done with it."

But then Carlos was there, staring at Vinnie so intently, and Dean knew that he couldn't. It'd be wrong to do it even if the kid weren't in the room, but seeing as he _was_…

"You know what? You're not worth it." Dean spat on Vinnie for good measure and then Carlos did the same, grinning up at him sheepishly before casting his eyes at his feet and chewing on his bottom lip.

"You say you got out," Carlos said tentatively, choosing his words carefully. "You got away from Vin."

Dean nodded.

"And you didn't have to… you were done with…"

"Done with," Dean promised. "Done for good."

Carlos gulped.

"And you were like me? You were a—"

"Yeah," Dean cut him off. "I was."

The boy nodded, biting his lip as he mulled this information over in his mind.

"And you've got somewhere for me to go?" he asked at length. "Somewhere that's not…"

"Somewhere that's definitely _not_."

The kid might not be too thrilled with where Dean was sending him, truth be told, but it was the safest place Dean could think of. Pastor Jim would look out for the kid, find him a good foster home, or else put him up at his own place until they could find something more permanent for him. And while Carlos might not revel in the idea of living in a church parish with the God-loving types, he was at least guaranteed to be left unmolested.

"I know a guy – stand-up, eats-his-Wheaties, squeaky-clean guy," Dean explained. "Religious type with lots of connections. He'll get you squared away."

Maybe it was a sign of how desperate Carlos was to get away from Vinnie that he didn't even balk at that. Hell, Dean had wanted out more than anything, but at 14, especially after having spent three years whoring on the streets, the very idea of living with an unknown man of the cloth, who would take one look at him and see all the sin, would have been insupportable. He'd have said no as a matter of pride, self-preservation be damned.

"Okay," Carlos whispered bracingly. Then, with more conviction. "Okay."

Dean allowed himself to chuckle when Carlos gave Vinnie a parting kick to the groin before following Dean out the front door. They had a bus ticket to buy, and then Dean had a mystery with a painting to sort out.

888

It had not been a good week. Vinnie was man enough to admit when he'd been beat – and boy had he been beat to hell and back. But it was galling to have his ex-whore show up all burly and ninja-fast and grown-up, throwing punches and insults and taking his pent-up frustration and rage out on Vinnie and then taking the live-in ass treat with him. Dean, that arrogant little shit, had grown up into an even more arrogant shit, and apparently had learned to move faster than the speed of light and fight better than Bruce Lee.

Getting beaten into a sniveling heap by the kid he used to fuck was an unnecessary lesson in humility, he thought. But to add insult to injury, he'd had to miss an entire week of work due to his injuries – none of which he'd be getting paid for. So now he was out one whore, a whole week's pay, and his entire body ached like he'd been run over by a truck.

If he ever saw Dean Winchester again, he was going to shoot him in the face.

Vinnie nursed these thoughts with a dark cloud swirling in his belly, his old frame curled up on the couch as the television droned on about the latest casualties in Iraq. His headache of two days had finally eased off a bit, but he was still sullen and morose. He wanted to be whole again, healed, so he could find some skulls to crack together.

Just then a knock on the door drew him out of his reverie.

"Go away!" he barked, wincing as his sore muscles twinged near his ribs.

Apparently the person at the door hadn't got the message, or else they were deliberately ignoring him. The knock on the door came again, louder this time, more insistent.

"I said go the fuck away!" Vinnie shouted. Probably some fuckin' kid selling magazine subscriptions, or the landlord again looking for the rent. Or Tony Two-Ton looking to break Vinnie's legs for the money he owed.

Well he wasn't in the mood to deal with any of this bullshit today.

With a groan, or maybe it was a growl, he rolled his aching body off the couch and lumbered/staggered through the living room, down the hall, until he reached his bedroom. Reaching with his left hand, because the wrist of the right was broken, he pulled open the drawer of the bedside table and retrieved his gun.

"Someone's gonna get a surprise," he muttered under his breath as he tucked the gun to his chest and grinned devilishly.

Someone was going to get a real surprise. Girl Scout, landlord, loan shark. Vinnie didn't give a fuck who, but whoever it was pounding at his door, he was going to send them on their merry freaking way. He was tired, sore, and cranky as all get-out, and he wasn't in the mood to entertain, make excuses, or (worst of all) pay outstanding debts.

So the gun would do the talking for him.

He shuffled his way painfully back down the hall and stopped with a huff at his front door. The person on the other side gave another sharp rap and Vinnie spared another grin as he tucked his gun close to his side and opened the door a crack, allowing the chain to do the work of keeping it secured only as open as it would allow.

"Are you Vincent?" a gruff-voiced man asked.

He was a middle-aged guy, dark hair with just the faintest traces of gray at his temples. Grizzled with several days' worth of beard speckled with white hairs here and there. Handsome in a dark, whiskey-soaked kind of way, with dark eyes and thick brows. He flashed a police badge, tucking it away in his coat and shuffling his feet tiredly.

"Vincent Perego?"

_Well crap!_ Vinnie couldn't very well pull out his gun and threaten a cop. He opted for silence, though, in case that asswipe Winchester had reported him to the cops for what he'd done to Carlos. Whore or not, the kid was still underaged, and some bleeding heart cop might decide to take an interest in the little slut.

"I understand there was an altercation a week ago at this address," the cop went on, his voice deep like tires crunching over gravel. "Some of the neighbours complained?"

Vinnie shrugged.

"I didn't call the cops," he said instead. He _hadn't_. Explaining his relationship with Winchester was a can of worms he didn't want opened, so he'd licked his wounds and suffered in silence. Like a martyr.

"I'm following a lead, actually," the cop admitted reluctantly, heaving a sigh. "Look, you mind if I come in? I don't exactly want to conduct my business in front of your neighbours."

Vinnie closed the door in the cop's face, tucking his gun in the back of his jeans before releasing the chain and opening it again.

"Make it quick, officer…?" Vinnie fished.

"Aframian," the cop said as he stepped through the entryway. "_Detective_ Aframian."

Vinnie closed the door and watched as Detective Aframian gave a cursory glance through the apartment, instincts on high alert in spite of the relaxed air he was trying to project. Vinnie wondered what the man was after, considering he hadn't involved the police. He hoped like hell it wasn't about Carlos.

"What can I do for you, Detective?" He had his gun at his back if he really needed to use it, but he hoped like hell he wouldn't. Cop killers didn't do well in prison, if they even made it that far.

"I have reason to believe that a wanted felon was recently in the area," Aframian said shortly. He reached into his coat and retrieved a folded piece of paper. "In fact, witnesses say he was seen in the stairwell to this building on the night of your altercation."

Vincent snatched the paper and unfolded it, smirking with glee when he saw the mug shot of a very smug-looking, slightly younger Dean Winchester.

"Have you seen this man? Goes by the name of Dean Winchester," the cop pressed hopefully.

Vinnie shrugged and tried for casual indifference.

"Might have. I don't rightly recall…" He scratched absently at his belly. "What's he wanted for?"

Aframian huffed mirthlessly, taking the paper back and folding it before shoving it inside his jacket once again.

"Whole host of crap," he said tiredly. "Breaking and entering, armed robbery, murder. Kid's got a rap sheet longer than a Christmas list."

_And speaking of Christmas. Looks like it's come early. Take that you smug, pretty-faced little fucker!_

"You know what," Vinnie said. "Now that you mention it, he does look familiar. It all happened pretty fast, you understand… But, uh, I'm pretty sure that's him. That's the guy that attacked me."

"Attacked you?" The cop looked eager, his big, dark eyes glinting in the stark evening light.

"Yeah," Vinnie said. "Broke into my apartment and took a Billy club to me. I never even saw him coming."

He thought the cop could look a little less pleased at that revelation. His eyes were too eager, his smile too tight, like he was fighting not to grin. Vinnie would have liked to have known what was so fuckin' funny.

"I know he don't look like much," Vinnie defended irritably. "But the kid's got a mean right hook and is fast like a freak – no matter how pretty he is. And I think he was on PCP or something."

"Dean doesn't do drugs," Aframian corrected sharply, all amusement gone from his face.

"Whatever," Vinnie huffed. "The guy's a psycho, just like his old man. Guess bein' a crazy murderer runs in the family."

The detective nodded, pursing his lips in thought as he took a few steps about the living room.

"Well you're right about a couple of things there, Vinnie," he drawled. Something about the tone of his voice made the hairs on the back of Vinnie's neck stand on end. "For one, Dean _is_ just like his old man."

Vinnie suppressed the urge to gulp and slid his hand to the back of his pants, preparing to draw his weapon.

"Chip off the old block." And the tiniest ghost of a wistful smile broke across his face, revealing dimpled cheeks.

_Oh shit. Oh shitty shit shit!_

Vinnie clutched the gun and held it at his side, still trying to look casual.

"And you know," Aframian added thoughtfully, the smile vanishing as his eyes darkened. "His father really is a psycho."

They were pointing pistols at each others' faces before either man could blink.

888

"You ain't no cop," Vincent Perego croaked as he pulled the hammer back on his gun.

"You're right." John's voice was dry, mirthless. "I'm not."

He watched as the big man blinked a bead of sweat out of his eye, his hand squeezing the gun reflexively, as if tightening his grip would frighten someone like John. For his part, John held his own gun with a straight hand, his whole body deadly calm in spite of the hateful need thrumming through his veins.

"Who the fuck are you and what the fuck do you want?" Vincent demanded, all false bravado to cover for the fact that he was scared shitless.

_Good_, John thought. I _hope you piss yourself, you spineless coward_.

"You know," John said conversationally as he began a slow, circular pace around his opponent. "I've been waiting a long time to meet you face to face."

When the man before him failed to reply, John resumed his stroll, never lowering his eyes or his gun.

"Dean didn't say much, of course. Never mentioned your name. Never mentioned anything, in fact. He's private like that."

He watched as Vincent's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"What? He didn't want his Daddy knowing he was a whore?" Vincent spat, giving his gun another squeeze.

The barb stung – anything that reminded him of what had been done to his boy stung – but John let it sink like a stone into the yawning abyss of darkness inside him, that cold, empty, hate-filled part that fueled his drive to keep fighting. He choked it back and counted to ten before speaking.

"Kept it to himself," John went on. "But I been playin' this game a long time, see? I know a trick or two."

And by trick, of course, he meant that he'd broken into the office of Dean's therapist, Dr. Oxley, and read through all of his files. It'd been one of the first things he'd done when he broke out of jail. Dean didn't know, of course. John hadn't told him. But he'd done it. He wasn't proud of it, but he'd done it. He'd needed to know what kind of baggage Dean had, what kinds of ghosts haunted him, so he'd know what he was dealing with. So he could help Dean move on.

So yeah, John had grossly violated his son's privacy, reading his most tender and intimate and _secret_ thoughts. The things he'd read there had been vomit-inducing, soul-crushing. A father should never, ever have to see the black and white details of those kinds of things – the things Vincent Perego had done – happening to his son. The words etched themselves onto his brain, painting pictures in hideous Technicolor of unspeakable violations and abuse.

At the hands of this man.

"So what?" Vincent demanded. "You come here for a little payback? Huh? Gonna defend your son's _honour_?" He snorted a laugh. "Cos let me tell you, that ship has seriously fucking sailed."

"We're not gonna do this," John said bluntly. "We're not gonna shoot the shit about right and wrong." And really, it was such a waste of time trading verbal blows with this piece of shit pedophile.

"I don't care what you think of my boy, or how entitled you think you are. Your opinion means less than _nothing_ to me."

Vincent shrugged, cocking his head to the side in challenge, a manic glint to his eye.

"Fine by me. I'm more a man of action anyway."

And then he pulled the trigger.

John almost flinched, but the click of the empty barrel was enough to bring his smile back. Vincent's eyes widened with panic as he pulled the trigger again. Again. Again.

"The fuck?" he growled frantically, pulling the trigger frantically after every click that failed to end in brain and blood spatter.

John smirked and raised his gun higher, his hand sure in spite of the restless energy thrumming through him.

"I just wanted to see your face," John said. "Look you in the eye and introduce myself before I kill you."

Vincent blanched, raising his hands and the empty gun in surrender.

"Look man, I get that you're pissed," he tried to placate. "But you said it yourself – Dean's already been here. He got me pretty good. I mean look at me! I'm a mess!"

John couldn't deny it. Dean had walloped the old bastard within an inch of his life, it appeared. Just like John had known he would.

He grinned in spite of the situation. Dean was a sneaky little bastard. Twice now, since John returned from prison, they'd been to New York, and both times Dean had avoided anything and everything having to do with his past. He'd made no attempts to contact anyone, even though John had invited him to. He'd said nothing of Vincent (trusting his father not to have broken into and read his secret psych files) and had made no attempts to find the man or get revenge.

Most likely because Dean knew that John would've followed him so that he could do precisely what he was doing now.

But now that Dean found himself in New York with Sam, without his ever-watchful father in tow, _lo and behold!_ The kid decides he needs to dish out some payback.

That boy was so predictable, John could probably write a book on him. A few notes in the journal about a very real series of deaths related to an auctioned painting, a phone call from one of John's contacts, and John was guaranteed to know the moment his boys hit New York. It'd damned well near been a set-up, with bread crumbs leading the boys to the Big Apple, and then Dean leading John to Vincent Perego.

"I've been waiting a long time for this," John admitted gravely.

"No-wait!"

"Vincent Perego," John said. "My name is John Winchester."

"Please!"

"And this is for Dean."

The blood and brain spatter that painted the TV behind Vincent's head dripped like runny cranberry sauce. John tucked the smoking gun into the waistband of his jeans and said a silent prayer to his wife.

"I got 'im, Mary," he whispered proudly, his bottom lip jiggling as his eyes welled up with tears. "Got him for what he did to our baby."

His breath hitched as he thought about that boy, with his smile full of sunshine, his heart so full of love and family, his frightening selflessness and courage. His son the hero, the bravest kid John had ever known.

'_It's about damned time!'_ he heard Mary's voice in his head say ruefully. A shiver ran through his spine at that. Whether he'd imagined it or not, Mary would have wanted Perego dead. Only she'd have castrated him first. She'd have cut his heart out and torn his limbs from his body.

"You're right," he admitted on an exhaled breath. "About damned time."

***

* * *

**End Notes:**

See? Papa John does escape from jail eventually, but it's still a way off in the current timeline (1993). I apologize for the typos and what not. As I said, it's been a rough month. My brain got a bit scrambled. lol.


	28. Chapter 27

**Chapter Notes:**

Sorry it has taken me so long! I've been stuckish on how to actually write some of what happens in this chapter, but now that it's out of the way I hope that the rest will progress more smoothly.

Thank you all -- again -- from the bottom of my heart for all of your support. You've just been so wonderful, so kind and supportive. I honestly couldn't (and wouldn't) be doing this without you.

A/N - For those of you who were confused by the 2006 Time Stamp, I sincerely apologize! Rest assured, this story is far from finished! There are many more adventures left to unravel before this thing will be remotely close to being finished. Having said that, I also thoroughly believe that what little was spoiled by the Time Stamp was barely the tip of the iceberg. I know I've promised, in Author's Notes and End Notes of previous chapters, that John would be free eventually, and that the boys would go hunting with him again, so I'm a bit surprised that some of you were so shocked by that reveal in the Time Stamp. Again, I apologize if it was unclear, but I've been forthright enough in my notes about that being on the horizon.

I apologize to anyone who felt that the Time Stamp ruined their enjoyment of this beast overall. It really wasn't my intention.

To the rest of you, Dean beating the snot out of Vinnie and then John killing him was my gift to you (I'd say it was the #1 request from all of you).

And now, without further ado, I bring you Chapter 27. Oh, the schmoop!

* * *

**Chapter 27**

The entire month of September passed in a blur of activity. Recovering from the mugging took more out of Dean than he would ever admit aloud, but he was confident that his tough front was reasonably believable. The Wesleys stopped pussyfooting around him as if he were made of glass, at least. He didn't like the worried looks, especially from Sam, who'd been making up excuses about nightmares so he could crawl into Dean's bed in the middle of the night. Dean had had to accuse him of being a raging homo after the fourth night just to get him to back the hell off. It was cute and all, but getting old fast.

On the other hand, getting mugged and almost having his brains bashed in turned out to be a really good thing, if Dean could ignore the ass-reaming from his Dad and the mess that was his face. Because Grammy Tilny was ten kinds of awesome. Her cooking was to die for and Dean told Jane in no uncertain terms, several times a day, that Rosemary could have his room and live in it if it meant she'd be on hand to replenish his supply of home made pie. Because seriously? Her pie was almost as good as sex (and even though he'd only done it with a girl the one time, he was definitely ranking sex pretty high up on the Awesome meter).

Another awesome thing about Grammy Tilny? She was outspoken, in the I-don't-care-if-I-have-an-audience kind of way. And she liked Dean, so her verbal diarrhea tended to veer towards praising him ('But my, you're a heartbreaker, boy') or defending him ('Now Peter, can't you see the boy's plum tired? Let him get caught up on his school work tomorrow'). And she liked Monopoly, which was an excellent time-killer for fourteen year-old boys who were home from school because their faces were too swollen to be seen in public. He still couldn't quite open his left eye, and the bruising was shockingly dark, like purple-black, so Dean hadn't protested when both Jane and Peter suggested that he stay home for a few days. It gave him time to get to know his puppy, who was the coolest dog ever to walk the planet. And it also gave him a chance to get to know old Rosemary, through death-match Monopoly wars.

He had to admit, she was a pretty cool broad, for an old fogey. She was far more laid back than her daughter, though a little too touchy-feely huggy for Dean's liking, and she laughed a lot. She swore a fair bit too, which was fine by Dean – it meant he was far less likely to get in trouble when his own vocabulary tended towards some of the brighter shades of the rainbow.

And did he mention she was a great cook?

On the Tuesday evening after the mugging, the whole family piled into the minivan, Rosemary included, and headed for Abraham and Margaret's house for a long-overdue 'family dinner.' Apparently they had lost time to make up for, what with Dean's near-coma on the weekend putting the kybosh on their regular Saturday morning drudgery. Margaret Wesley took one look at Dean's bruised face and positively beamed in exultation.

"I trust you see now the evil of your own vanity," she crowed with her stupid, smug face. "Your obsession with your appearance, with improving your body, has brought this upon you. If you don't seek the Lord's forgiveness, that sinner's face will lead you straight to Hell, child."

The old bitch was crazier than Dean had ever imagined. He stared at her a moment in stunned disbelief, pursing his lips in a desperate attempt to choke back a retort. Nothing he said to her would make any difference, even though it would feel really, really good to say it.

'_Eat shit and die, you old hag!_' had a nice ring to it. _'Go fuck yourself, bitch!'_ had its merits too. He was practically humming with vitriolic replies, his teeth clenched so tight they fucking hurt, the muscles in his jaws jumping in anxious anticipation. God this woman was a piece of work! For all her talk about God, she was one evil bitch. Who else would say something like that after the weekend they'd just had? Dean had been in intensive care with that head injury – he could have died – and then with Social Services sticking their oar in, and Sam's near meltdown...? It was too much. Margaret had gone too far.

"Fuck. You." He spat through tightly gritted teeth, eyes narrowed to tiny slits of emerald. He was past caring if he got in trouble, past worrying about how anyone would react to his outburst. It was a miracle he didn't deck her – they should be thanking him for his fucking restraint.

"That's enough!" Peter barked in his most commanding tone, standing between Dean and Margaret as though to keep them from going for each other's throats (which might not be that far off the mark, all things considered). Peter's hand was solid and hot on Dean's shoulder, like a firebrand searing into his flesh at the contact, jolting him out of his fury and into the present moment once again.

Dean was really going to get it now. He'd just told Peter's freakin' _mother_ to fuck herself. The crazy religious lady with the scary-ass stern husband. In their home. In front of Jane's rockin' awesome mom, who was probably thinking that Dean was some punk-ass loser who didn't have any respect for his elders. He'd like to take this moment to point out to anyone that cared to listen that he had a very fine respect for his elders, knew his place just fine and dandy, so long as the elders weren't dicks (or stupid – he really couldn't abide stupid people, no matter how old they were). It just happened that most adults he knew were complete assholes. Case in point: Margaret Wesley.

"You're damned right, that's enough!" Rosemary said hotly from her place at Jane's side. Her eyes were bright with anger, her cheeks and jowls positively quivering as she shook with the force of her feelings. She looked at Dean in surprise, as if seeing him for the first time, and the corners of her mouth twitched downward in visible disgust.

Dean couldn't help hanging his head in defeat at the loss of his newest ally. It'd been too much to hope that someone would have taken his side (though he didn't doubt for one second that Sam was righteously indignant on his behalf), especially old Rosemary. She wasn't just an adult, she was a grandparent, and grandparents were naturally scandalized and outraged when kids spoke out of turn. It was one of those old fashioned 'children should be seen and not heard' things, he figured.

"Dean," Rosemary commanded, her voice whipcord sharp. "Go wait in the van." She turned her angry gaze on Margaret. "Sam, Suzie," her gaze never leaving the in-law's. "Go with your brother."

Dean gulped, tried to swallow, but it was hard because his mouth had gone completely dry. He wasn't sure if he was in deep, deep shit, or if he was being ordered away to avoid stepping in it. But what he did know was that somebody was about to be torn a new asshole.

"NOW!" Rosemary barked.

Apparently Dean needed to be told twice, but Sam's hand clamping onto his to drag him bodily away from what was looking to be some kind of grandma smackdown was enough to get his feet in motion. He stumbled, craning his neck to peer over his shoulder to see what was happening behind him with the adults. He could see Rosemary puffing up like a pissed-off peacock, shoulders back and ready to start pummelling, lungs expanding in preparation for the bellow to come. Sam tugged a little more insistently, making Dean trip over his own feet before turning his gaze ahead. They'd barely made it outside before Rosemary started screaming.

"_Now you listen to me you skinny, bible-thumping bitch!"_

Sam pushed the door shut behind them with a veritable clang, falling against it with his back, eyes round like saucers. He looked up at Dean, completely stunned as he listened through the door to the sounds of one grandmother yelling at the other. None of them knew what to say, standing agape on the front step as Grandma Tilny's enraged voice floated in muffled snippets through the door.

"_...the matter with you?...God-fearing woman... saying something like that!" _

Sam's pale face broke into a tentative dimpled grin before his eyes lit up in surprised glee. He looked so thoroughly impressed, so utterly pleased with this sudden turn of events, that his dimples cut holes into his cheeks.

"_...hateful to a child... brutalized... probably some rapist!"_ They waited in silence as Rosemary gulped for air before continuing. _"...got away... thank the Lord... could have __**died!**__"_

There were breaks in Rosemary's yelling, no doubt when Margaret was daring to make her own quiet, cold reply. It didn't escape Dean's notice that none of the other adults present seemed to be saying anything to rein Mrs. Tilny in. And Rosemary just steamrolled ahead.

"_...have half a mind... tan your ass!"_

There was more mumbling, more growl-yelling, more angry pauses, and neither Dean, Sam, nor Suzie had made a move towards the van. Screw that! They had ringside seats to Granny Thunderdome 1993!

Then, at last, Margaret's voice broke through the barrage of reprimands, threats, and insults.

"_I will not stand for this in my house!"_ she intoned imperiously.

Sam's smile vanished, his lips curling back into a silent snarl. Beside him, little Suzie was hopping from foot to foot like she had to pee, her tiny face scrunched up in anger. Dean thought maybe now would be a good time to go to the van after all.

"C'mon guys," he tried tentatively. "We should go..."

"_You have been beguiled!"_ Margaret wailed zealously, her voice crystal clear through the door. _"The devil may don a pleasing face, all the better to lead you to damnation!"_

"_Oh blow it out your ass, Margaret!"_

Sam scoffed an incredulous laugh and pushed away from the door so he could stand closer to Dean.

"_... both know..."_ Rosemary's voice muffled in and out. _"... has nothing to do with this! Your self-righteous... That poor boy..."_

"_That poor boy is a filthy whore!"_

The words burned like acid, through skin and bone. And there it was. The Truth. It hurt like being sucker-punched in the gut. Hurt like a mugger's rock-clenched fist to the face. Hurt like watching his mother burn on a ceiling. The Truth. What Dean really was, what everyone who looked at him could see no matter how much he tried to scrub it clean.

_Filthy whore._

Dean didn't hear the ending of that conversation. He didn't hear Abraham Wesley's shocked _'Margaret enough!_,' didn't hear the angry, disgusted parting words of Jane and Peter Wesley, and he most definitely didn't hear Rosemary Tilny's vitriolic hiss of _'I hope you burn in Hell, you sanctimonious witch!'_ He was too deafened by the blood pounding in his ears to hear anything. Sam tugged at his hand, pulling him towards the van, and Dean stumbled drunkenly in his wake, dragged lifelessly like a marionette, or an animatronic Dean-doll. He was barely conscious of stepping into the van, hardly registered Sam's frantic babbling to _'ignore the stupid cow! She's just a... a... a big __**bitch**__!'_

He was lost in his own head, heated with shame and humiliation and despair that those words had been spoken aloud, in front of the only people aside from his father and brother who meant anything to him, and he couldn't make Margaret take them back! He couldn't rewind the clock and make her not-say it, make her not utter that ugly, ugly truth like a big, brightly-colored, sullied picnic blanket, spread out on the grass and crawling with scavenging ants. No, forget laying it out on the grass. She'd draped it over his shoulders – he was fucking _wearing it_. In front of Sam! And if Sam had heard... If Sam knew...?

"We're ordering in," Peter's voice said from the driver's seat. "We'll have a nice, comfy, family dinner at home, in front of the TV. How does that sound?"

The van was moving, though Dean was barely aware of it. At some point Jane and Peter and Rosemary had clamoured into it, to go where, Dean didn't know. It registered somewhere in the back of his mind that their supper plans had clearly changed. They weren't eating with Abraham and No-Heart anymore. And apparently Peter's inviolable rule that the family must eat together at the kitchen table, no exceptions, was being abandoned in favour of a meal spent together eating fast-food and worshipping the idiot box (as Bobby was fond of calling it). Dean would have been shocked – Sam and Suzie sure as hell were – but he was too busy feeling too big to fit in his own skin.

He'd always known that Margaret couldn't stand him, but to hear her blurt out why, with such hateful conviction, in front of Jane, Peter, and Rosemary, was more than his hardened fourteen year-old heart could stand. Goddamnit, he thought he was past this! Hadn't he just had an awesomely life-affirming moment in his bedroom with the gun and the whole hunter-purpose-feel-good crap? Hadn't he just erected a whole bunch of walls to keep the self-hateful thoughts, presently burning through his entire being, from surfacing? What the hell was the point in rallying up his spirits and putting on that damned brave face if he was going to get knocked down at every freaking turn?

And he was pissed, damnit! Pissed because he'd just got emotionally bitch slapped by a skinny old hag that he pretty much hated anyway. Pissed because he'd just let a whole bunch of that crap go, but it turned out that his feelings weren't buried nearly deep enough. Shallow graves were sucky like that for coming back to bite you in the ass. Lesson learned.

Now he was Peter's freakin' pity case. Dean knew things were bad when the man offered to do some kind of powwow in the living room, _in front of the TV_, like any normal, dysfunctional and emotionally disconnected American family. The peace offering, though well-intended, was like putting a band-aid on a 3" gash to the throat, or bailing out a sinking ship one spoonful at a time. Hardly helping at all, really, and insulting to Dean's manly sensibilities to boot.

"I don't need freakin' coddling, Peter," Dean grumbled, his good arm folded tightly across his chest and eyes focussed intently on the whirring streets out the window as they passed. "Don't go removing that stick up your ass and bending the rules on my account."

He could hear the collective full-body flinch that followed his words, the sudden hush that fell throughout the van deafening and oppressive. He instantly wished that he could take it back, guilt blooming in his belly and choking him with the lump that formed in his throat. He was a terrible fucking person, lashing out at Peter when the man had just alienated himself from his own _parents_ on Dean's behalf. He deserved to be cast out. Christ, no wonder Vinnie hadn't had any self-control around him. Dean went out of his way to make people crazy, antagonized them until they had no choice but to lash out physically. He was so fucking stupid.

"Peter, I—" Dean tried to find his voice as his eyes misted over.

"Forget about it," Peter said softly but firmly. "You're upset, and I know you didn't mean it. Mostly."

He peeked a quick glance at Dean through the rear-view mirror and offered a weak, hopeful grin.

"I owe you an apology, Dean."

Dean did a double take, but saw that Peter's face was set in a serious frown. Not what Dean had expected. At all.

"My mother had no right to say those things to you," he explained. "In fact, she's said a lot of things over the last few months that she ought not to have said. And I should have put a stop to it a long time ago."

"You're damned right you should!" Rosemary growled from her seat next to Suzie.

"Mom, enough!" Jane whisper-ordered.

"I screwed up," Peter admitted candidly, sadly. "I've been trying so hard to be a good son, to honour my mother and father as the Bible tells me, that I lost sight of what's most important. In deferring to them, I failed you guys as a parent – and my number one job in this whole world is looking out for you three."

Dean would deny it later, or blame it on the concussion, but he was definitely crying. Peter's words hurt so much even as they soothed the aches and pains of self-doubt. He didn't deserve the man's love – he wasn't even Peter's kid! And he'd been nothing but a pain in the ass, partying and swearing and talking back and ditching school and causing grief and stress with his "issues." Dean didn't get why Peter and Jane cared so much about him, and it hurt because he just knew that he was going to let them down somehow. Hell, he already had let them down with Headmaster Cunningham. He didn't want them to care about him, and what was more, he really didn't want to care about them. He couldn't afford to, and yet his heart was clenching at the very thought of belonging with them, to them.

"I know I'm not your biological father," the man went on. "And I'm not trying to replace him. But God brought you to me, gave me the most important, most precious job in the world, and he made you mine. You're our boy, Dean. My boy, just like Sam is my boy, and Suzie is my baby girl."

Correction, Dean was blubbering like a little girl, shoulders shaking with the force of his sobs, breath catching in his chest while pathetic whimpering sounds clawed their way up his throat.

"I let you down," Peter said. "I'm sorry that you had to sit through my mother's insults and recriminations again and again, and I'm sorry that I _let_ her. She's not a bad person, Dean: she's old and set in her ways. It's _my_ fault that I didn't put a stop to her hateful words. It's my fault that I kept bringing you back there to suffer in silence. You—" he stopped himself, biting back a choked sob kind of noise and tucking his chin to his chest, his eyes flicking to the rear-view mirror again to make sure Dean was listening. "You've been so good about the whole thing," he lamented. "Every week we've brought you to that house where you've been insulted and belittled and humiliated, and you never complained."

There was a pregnant pause where Dean had to gulp to force himself to keep breathing. Peter's confession was – wow – overwhelming. And the fact that he was spilling his guts out in front of the whole family made it even more weird, made it more difficult for Dean to process the words without reacting like a total chick. If they'd just give him a minute to collect himself, he could handle the whole thing in a very caveman grunty fashion, but instead they were all looking at him. _Oh God!_

_Everyone_ in the car was looking at him and it was eerie how much their expressions matched. Wide, dewy-eyed wonder, laced with some ooey-gooey love and a few sprinkles of adoration, glassy eyes wet with tears and shining at him like multiple sets of lamplights in the dark.

"Well," Dean said at length as he exaggeratedly cleared his throat, finding his voice through the thickness of emotion choking him. "Get extra cheese on our pizza tonight, add Segal or Van Damme, and we'll call it even."

See? It was totally the concussion's fault.

888

Sam lay awake in bed, unable to sleep, unable to banish the image of his big brother – his badass, strong, proud and super-macho big brother – crying because Dad admitted he'd been wrong to let Grandma be mean to him. It was so unlike Dean, so open and vulnerable, that it made Sam's insides shrivel up and squirm like snakes in his belly. It scared him. Scared him a lot, because he didn't know what it meant.

It looked more and more like Dean had never had anybody to love him before Sam had found him. His big brother was strong and brave and could fight better than anyone Sam had ever seen on TV, but he was like a little kid inside – a little kid who'd been hurt a lot. Sam didn't know who had hurt him, or how, but he knew that it was bad. He knew that his brother's nightmares were ghosts from a very scary past, probably memories of people hurting him when he was all alone and missing Sam and their dad.

He wished so badly that they could fix everything with pizza night in front of the TV. It'd been nice and all, sitting curled up together as a family, watching TV and laughing and just enjoying being together, but Sam could see that empty look in his brother's eyes sometimes, like Dean was slipping away inside his mind and getting lost in his nightmares again. And he looked so sad, in spite of the smiles and the jokes and the cheeks stuffed with pizza (the "See Food" joke never got old for Dean, ever). Dean had looked mostly okay as he stuffed his face full of greasy food, but Sam was pretty sure that Grandma Wesley's mean words still hurt him. And if Dean was anything like Sam, he was probably wondering why – why did she hate him so much, and say such terrible things to him?

When he couldn't stand lying in bed, staring at his ceiling, for a second longer, Sam kicked the covers off his bed with a huff and slunk quietly out of his room. He tiptoed down the hall to his parents' room and snuck inside. It was stupid and Dean would make fun of him for it if he knew, but Sam really wanted his Mom right now. He just needed someone to talk to, someone to explain so the world would make sense again.

Since Dean came back, a lot of things in Sam's life didn't make sense anymore.

"Sam?" Mom whispered in the dark before reaching out to snap on the bedside lamp. Her hair was mussed up from lying against the pillow, but her eyes were alert. Maybe she couldn't sleep either.

"Sweetie, what is it?"

Sam shrugged sullenly and took a few more tentative steps towards the bed.

"Can't sleep?" she tried.

He nodded, pouting.

"C'mere." Her arms reached out to welcome him into the bed with her and Sam gladly obliged, tucking himself under her chin while she wrapped him inside the blankets with her.

"Something on your mind?" she asked quietly. Dad was snoring like an 80 year-old man next to them, completely oblivious to the light suddenly illuminating the room, as well as the hushed whispers.

There were lots of things on Sam's mind. He had a lot of questions to ask, but he didn't really know where to begin. It felt strange, lying in his parents' bed, his head a scant few inches away from the wall that stood between their room and Dean's bathroom. It almost felt like betraying him, talking about Dean when he wasn't there to speak up for himself. But Sam needed to know, and he knew that his brother would clam up, or worse, shut him up, before the conversation went anywhere.

"I think..." Sam began before pausing to chew his lip in thought. "I-I don't want to go to Grandma and Grandpa Wesley's anymore."

Mom heaved a sigh and hugged him closer.

"Because of what happened today?"

Sam nodded.

"And other days. Lots of other days."

Grandma Wesley was always mean to Dean, always talking about how he was going to go to Hell, but doing it in a roundabout way so that she could be talking about anyone who fit his general description. It was worse than going to church, because even then the priest didn't talk about Hell and eternal damnation quite that often. And Father D always talked about forgiveness and redemption, too. Grandma Wesley was always too caught up in the sin and hellfire to even think about those kinds of things.

"Why does she hate my brother?" Sam asked, his voice sounding thin and tiny even to his own ears.

"Oh Sam," Mom whispered sadly, giving him another squeeze with her arms. "She doesn't hate Dean. She's just... I think maybe she's afraid of him... a little bit?"

"Afraid of Dean?" He could feel her nodding as her chin brushed the top of his head with each nod. "Why?"

"I can't say for sure, Sam," she whispered. "But I think I can guess. It's like... It's like how some people are afraid of strangers, or afraid of people that are new or different. They don't know what to expect when that new person comes along and so they get scared or nervous. And for some people, when they get scared or nervous, they react by getting angry."

"And she's afraid because Dean's part of our family now, and he's a stranger in our family?"

"Well you know your brother," she said. "Dean is like a wild thing. He's... he's bright like a candle. Wild like fire. Now you and me? We know that fire's essential to life: it keeps us warm and allows us to cook our food. It protects us. But someone like your Grandma Wesley – she sees fire and she thinks of all the ways that it's dangerous. She thinks of getting burned, of _us_ getting burned. And so she wants to protect us from it."

That made sense, Sam supposed. Dean was a lot like a candle flame. He burned bright, but he was always flickering, changing with the slightest breeze, liable to blow out altogether or catch onto something nearby and blaze out of control. But that was also one of the things that Sam loved best about his big brother. He loved the fire in him.

"But that doesn't mean she's right," Mom said firmly. "And your father and I – we don't like that she's been so hard on your brother. And what's more important, we don't agree with her. We love Dean because we know what a wonderful person he is."

Sam wanted to say, 'Well duh!' but didn't. It was hard not to love Dean. Probably the candle thing again. They were like moths being drawn to his light, even if sometimes it burned if you got too close. It was worth it being close, though, because Dean's love was warm and fierce and constant. And Grandma Wesley just didn't get that.

"Why did she call him a whore?"

That question had been sitting most heavily on him. Sam knew his Bible. He knew about Mary Magdalene and the other women of ill repute. He knew that there were some people who sold their bodies for sex (which was definitely a sin if you weren't married). And he knew that sometimes people got called whore when they weren't really prostitutes at all. But he was pretty sure that prostitutes were always women.

It was really confusing.

"Is it because of what he did with Jamie Anderson at the 4th of July pool party?" Sam queried.

Sam really didn't think it was funny, but Mom started to chuckle quietly in his ear before nuzzling her cheek against his head.

"Oh honey," she said wistfully. "Your poor brother's never going to live that down, I'm afraid." She sighed and chuckled again. "The rumour mill is an awful thing, kiddo, especially in a community like this one, where everybody knows everybody else's business. And your brother..."

She hesitated.

"Dean's maybe a bit of an early bloomer," she hedged.

Sam didn't know what she meant by that. He'd learned about puberty in health class, and they talked about late bloomers and early bloomers, but Dean didn't have a moustache and hadn't broken out in acne like most boys his age, so Sam had always thought that his big brother was a _late_ bloomer. What did kissing girls and almost getting naked with them in a pool have to do with blooming? Unless it was about the sex thing. People who bloom start having sex?

In that case Sam hoped he never bloomed. Ever. Jason Kitts had shown him a sex book that his parents bought him, with diagrams of the Dad Parts and the Mom Parts and how babies are made, and Sam had spent the whole time torn between giggling like an idiot and feeling like he was going to puke. Knowing that his parents had done that at least once to make Suzie made him feel betrayed, like he'd never known his parents at all. And now Dean was blooming and apparently trying to have sex too – maybe he already had!

"He definitely seems to be kind of girl crazy," his Mom went on. "Maybe a bit more than most boys his age."

"And because he's girl crazy and wants to have sex, that makes him a whore?" Sam asked, trying to lay it out so it would make sense.

"No, sweetie." Mom's voice was soothing as she gave him another squeeze. "Though I guess for some people, maybe they would think that. People like your Grandma."

"But you don't think that?"

"No, Sam. I don't." She pulled away a bit and held onto his shoulders, looking him in the eye. "Your father and I agree that you should wait until marriage –"

"I'm not ever having sex!" Sam muttered adamantly.

"But just because some people can't or won't wait, doesn't mean they're whores. It just means they believe in something different."

Well that figured. Dean didn't believe in pretty much anything Sam did.

"Dean doesn't believe in God," he mumbled sadly. "Or the Bible."

She hugged him close again with a heavy, sad sigh.

"I know, honey. I know. But that might change some day. Maybe being with us will help him see that God is with us always. Maybe it'll help him feel God's love as we feel it."

"And if he doesn't?" Sam pressed. "If he doesn't believe in God, but keeps on chasing girls and has sex without being married anyway?"

"Still doesn't make him a whore," she replied sweetly.

"But if he doesn't believe like we believe, that means he's allowed to do whatever he wants?"

Mom snorted a laugh.

"Heavens, no!" she giggled, then sighed again. "Doesn't mean he won't do it anyway, though."

Sam figured his Mom knew Dean pretty darned well.

888

Going back to school with a purply-brown bruised face sucked hairy ass. Granted, going back to school period sucked hairy ass. But it was worse now that Dean had taken time off to recuperate after the mugging because everyone had had time to gossip about him in his absence. The moment he'd walked through the front doors of Albright after his brief leave of absence, Dean had known that things had changed. The atmosphere was different – cooler, more hostile. Pampered kids with perfectly manicured nails and coiffed hair turned their noses up at him as he passed them in the hallway, whispering or speaking in low voices (though always loud enough for him to hear them).

'Foster child,' they sneered. 'Charity case.' 'Who does he think he's fooling, anyway?'

He tried not to let it get to him. It didn't matter, anyway. What they thought of him didn't matter. They were just an entitled bunch of snobs who were used to being special because of their money, and he supposed it must be kind of galling to have some punk-ass street rat who was barely literate metriculating with them as though he belonged there, as though he were one of them, as though he were of the same stock as them.

Besides, his work load was easily enough to keep him occupied. He had a lot of catching up to do, spending lunches and after school for one-on-one recap lessons. Mrs. MacKenzie, especially, was riding his ass about getting up to snuff, so pretty much every waking moment he had was spent working on school.

Then there was also the extracurricular stuff, the compulsory courses he hadn't signed up for because he hadn't known about them – the damned 'personal development' requirements that were supposed to prove that he was some kind of well-rounded individual. What that amounted to, in the plain English his not-at-all-helpful guidance counsellor informed him, was that he had to take an elective from the Arts category: Music, Art, or Drama. No amount of pleading to take extra gym, join every sports team the school had, or even be the school mascot, would convince Mr. Gould that the compulsory Art credit could be side-stepped.

So Dean had chosen music, and to ensure that the whole world suffered with him, had selected the drums as his instrument of study. It had been a no-brainer, really. He wasn't pretentious or inspired enough to even think of taking an Art class, and he wasn't extroverted enough (or gay) to join the Theatre crowd. Music was his best option, his safest option, considering his best (and only) friend was something of a wiz at the clarinet and could help him in a pinch. Besides, he'd learned to play guitar in New York from a twink named Joshua (who was sixteen and would busk for change before becoming desperate enough to sell his ass on the streets), so he had at least a rudimentary sense of rhythm and had a pretty good ear. And between lunch-hour study, after-school make-up classes, reading into the wee hours of the morning for English, and pounding away on a pathetic plastic drum pad in mind-numbing boredom as he 'practiced' in the few minutes of spare time that he did have, Dean didn't have time to be worried about what the snooty sonsofbitches at Albright thought of him.

Life at home wasn't any kind of reprieve from the whirlwind, either. Grammy Tilny was a laugh riot kind of companion who took up a lot of space. It was almost impossible to tune out when she was in the room because she somehow commanded attention without ever explicitly commanding anything. Her exuberance and enthusiasm, though endearing, were sometimes exhausting. And she tried _so hard_ to keep his spirits up that sometimes he just wanted to tape her mouth shut and lock her away in a closet for a while. On the plus side, though, Saturday morning breakfast at Abraham and Margaret's were at an end, pending an apology from the old bag (which Dean was pretty sure would be coming just this side of never). Peter insisted, no matter how much Dean tried to tell him that it didn't matter and that they ought not to break off ties on his account, that the woman had behaved inappropriately and that they would not be returning until she made a full apology to Dean. Dean was pretty confident he wouldn't be stepping foot inside that house again.

And then there was Lucy. Lucy who still had some house-training left to do and who peed in his shoes every morning. Lucy who was too small to go on any kind of run, leaving Dean to take leisurely strolls through suburbia with all the housewives out power-walking. It was kind of humiliating.

Still, the dog was pretty awesome. He made allowances for her lack of speed or bladder control because she was his and she was sweet and she slept on his bed with him and kept his feet warm (not that he needed it – hello? Phoenix!). She was an awesome companion and she never judged him, even when he reeked from a two-hour run through the park (being especially stinky on his right side, where his arm was strapped close to his chest so his right armpit had no breathing room). Hell, Dean was pretty sure Lucy liked his stink; her beagle nose gravitated towards his feet and pits and occasionally crotch/ass often enough to convince him that her doggy senses were fine-tuned in favour of all things revolting.

When September made way for October, Dean was finally, _finally_ freed from the evil prison of the sling. His collar bone was healed enough that the dreaded contraption was retired in favour of a rigorous course of physiotherapy (which he attended three times a week). It hurt like hell but Dean soldiered through it with zeal, pushing himself just that tiny bit past his limits so that he could be back on form again. It was so wonderful having two hands again. He could cut his own food again, tie his laces, or even practice on his drum had with both drumsticks!

What he hadn't expected, though, was the congratulatory gift from Jane and Peter to commemorate the event. It happened on the Thursday after the sling was removed. Sam and Suzie were both hopping up and down like a couple of jack rabbits when he got home from school with Angela, sharing smug, bright-eyed grins and tugging on his hands chanting, "Wait 'til you see!" "You're gonna _love_ it!" and Dean had no idea what they were talking about. But there was some kind of surprise waiting for him, if Grammy Tilny's matching Cheshire Cat grin was anything to go by, and the fact that Peter came waltzing through the door at 4:30 instead of his customary 6:00 was the biggest clue of all.

"Well," Peter announced grandly as the Wesley clan, Dean, and Angela waited expectantly in the living room. "We thought that we'd mark the occasion of Dean regaining use of both of his limbs," and here he tilted his head in Dean's direction in polite, playful acknowledgment. "This is just a little something from Jane and me to help you in your recovery."

A gift to help him in his recovery? Oh God, he hoped it wasn't more therapy sessions (physical or headshrinky).

"If you'll just follow me," Peter said as he laid a hand on Dean's shoulder and lead him towards the front door.

The whole family (plus Angela) trooped outside, Dean's confusion growing more and more, until they finally reached the garage. By this time Sam and Suzie were like a couple of electric eels, jumping out of their skins with excitement.

"Show 'im, Dad! Show him!" Suzie squealed as she jumped up and down, tugging at Dean's hand as she hopped.

"Settle down," Jane hushed her quietly, though she too was smiling so big her face was lit up like a candle.

Peter just nodded and unlocked the side door into the garage, poking his arm through to slap the electronic door opener and causing the whole thing to come alive with a metallic clang. Dean watched the door roll up inch by inch as it ground its way higher and higher. He could see the tires of the minivan coming into view, the bumper, the glistening finish of the hood. The company car that Peter drove was still in the driveway, so Dean looked beyond the van to see what this surprise gift could possibly be.

His jaw dropped to his chin.

Pristine metal and treated sheepskin pulled tight over cylinders of various sizes – a full drum set, complete with stand-mounted cymbals and drum petal for the big bass drum. Dean's heart stopped as he took in the sight of the kickass kit before him, all sound closing off in his ears as the blood rushed to his head. Sam and Suzie were squealing and bouncing around, tugging him by the hands to drag him towards the gleaming thing of beauty in the garage, but Dean felt far away, removed from his body.

Peter's strong hand clamping down on his shoulder, warm and reassuring and grounding as it squeezed gently, drew him back to himself.

"Do you like it?" he asked hopefully.

Dean might have grunted, or nodded. He wasn't really sure, too busy staring wide-eyed while Sam and Suzie both ran circles around the drum kit, each clearly itching to pick up the sticks and bang away.

"Jane and I thought you would put them to good use," Peter explained mildly. "Build up some strength in your arm, and also get some extra practice in for music class."

"Told you he wouldn't practice at school," Angela said beside him, grinning like the cat that ate the canary.

"It _might _have been Angela's idea," Jane offered before giving Angela a playful wink.

His best friend was beaming, her grey eyes so bright they looked almost tearful. He kind of wanted to strangle her for being such a filthy sneak, and for helping to orchestrate this hideous girly surprise unveiling, but instead he surprised himself even more by _hugging_ her.

"You were in on this?" he whispered into her hair.

Angela shrugged against him.

"I'm a girl who can appreciate a hot guy behind a drum set," she deadpanned. "So my intentions weren't entirely altruistic. But yeah..." She pulled away to look him in the eyes. "Piss and moan all you want, you know you think the drums are seriously badass."

She definitely had a point. There might have been another reason why Dean had chosen the drums that involved fantasies of himself as part of some seriously cool 80s hair cover band. _Dean Winchester on drums_. He had to admit, it had a ring to it...

"I don't know what to say," he said at length, a little breathless.

"Say you'll practice every day and become a famous rock star," Jane teased.

Dean looked at his foster parents, completely lost for words. They'd done this for him. They'd gone out and bought him a brand new set of drums just for his stupid music class. They'd done that. And he suddenly felt like a supreme asshole, considering he'd chosen the drums mostly to annoy them. Not only that, though, he knew that his ultimate goal was to leave as soon as his Dad managed to break out of jail. First chance he got, he was going to hit the road with his Dad so they could carry on the family business. But Jane and Peter were thinking of him in terms of forever, like they really wanted to keep him, like they were really claiming him as their own. It made his throat tighten painfully.

"Thank you," he whispered, looking at each in turn. "Thank you so much. I—"

Jane silenced him by wrapping her arms around him and pulling him close.

"We feel you've earned it," she said warmly and Dean allowed himself to hug her back, squeezing like he might never let go. "You've had a rough few months, but you've been working so hard and we felt you deserved a reward."

'Being with Sam's all I need,' Dean thought as he stepped out of the hug to look up at his foster parents. In giving him Sam, they'd already given him the whole world. But the truth was, they'd given him a lot more than that. They'd given him a home, and safety, and acceptance. They'd taken him at his worst and refused to turn him away.

"Well what're you waiting for?" Grammy Tilny's loud voice broke through the dewy-eyed reverie. "Are you going to stand here staring at them or are you going to show us what you've got?"

Angela seconded that motion with a nudge of her hip.

"Go on," she urged. "Give 'em a good bang!"

Dean could feel himself grinning from ear to ear.

"Hey, does this mean I can start up a garage band?"

TBC...

* * *

End Notes:

Dean playing the drums.... *drool* I've had that envisioned easily since July, so it's nice to have finally brought it to life. More awesomeness for Dean on the horizon (like his first Christmas with the Wesleys and his first girlfriend). We eventually have to sort out the nastiness with Dennis, too.


	29. Chapter 28

A/N: Okay, so I suck beyond description. I am so, so, so, so sorry to leave you all waiting for so long for an update. I kind of wrote myself into a corner, with so many little things I wanted to share with you before taking us to some major moments of conflict/crisis, but anxiety and writer's block left me completely stranded in a quagmire of "Where the hell do I go from here?"

I think I'm mostly past it now. I've got myself past the worst of the writer's block and have written this little snippet (just barely over 2000 words) to try to bridge the gap, I guess. I'm working on the next chapter, and hope to avoid any further huge gaps in posting like the last couple. I feel like I know where I'm going with this now. *crosses fingers*

In the meantime, I need to tell you all, from the bottom of my heart, how much you have carried me through some rough, inspirationless times. I don't think there's a more supportive or constructive readership in the whole of fandom like I've seen here. You're all so amazing and helpful and just plain _encouraging_. You've kept me going with your kind praise, support, and concern, when I might otherwise have given up. So thank you - a million times over - thank you! You didn't let me down, and come hell or high water, I'm going to get to the end of this story.

And now without further ado...

* * *

In spite of how pretty he was, Dean Winchester was not a popular kid at Albright Academy, even after almost two months of attending there. He may have had charm enough to lure middle-aged nuns into his bed, and he may have caught the eye of just about every girl between the ages of twelve and sixteen. He may have been athletic and some kind of prodigy on the drums. But he was not well liked. At all.

He was a foster kid, for starters, and everyone knew it. He may as well have been wearing a big, neon sign that read "Trailer Park Trash." The lack of background, of biological parents, of family wealth, made him _nothing_ in the eyes of a lot of the stuck-up kids at school, like he was the dirt beneath their feet. It was also widely known that his father was in jail, which added to the aura of danger and worthlessness that Dean seemed to carry with him naturally. All the well-bred, socially elite teens of Phoenix's most prestigious private school seemed to take particular slight to someone of Dean's degraded background being admitted to their hallowed halls, being granted the kind of education that was theirs by right and, it seemed, his as some kind of sad, cruel joke.

Angela didn't get it, and hated that so many of her fellow classmates could be so snobby and shallow. Dean may not be very polished, and could sometimes be massively socially retarded, but he was one of the best people she knew when it came to essentials. _He'd jumped off a bridge and saved a little girl from drowning._ He'd done that, risked his life, without even thinking twice. She couldn't picture even one of those high-horsed bitches at school doing the same.

But a teeny, tiny, secret part of her was just the slightest bit relieved that Dean was an outcast, because Dean being something of a social pariah meant that he wasn't likely to ever ditch her for bigger and better friends. Beggars can't be choosers, her grandpa used to say, and she felt guiltily content to have her friend stuck with her for that very reason – not that he ever acted like being her friend was some kind of chore or anything. And really, she was pretty sure his disdain for the popular crowd, and for kids their age in general, was pretty genuine.

Maybe, she thought, Dean didn't have other friends (with the exception of Derek Schuster and occasionally Jamie Anderson) because he didn't want them. Maybe he was perfectly satisfied being BFFs with a string-bean girl with no boobs and wild hair and glasses so thick they were pretty much bullet proof. Maybe he liked her just the way she was. He didn't say as much in words (that was never his style), but she got the feeling that he kinda, maybe, really cared about her.

For example: he kind of went all out for her birthday (as much as Dean Winchester is ever likely to go all out for anything). Her parents were out of town at the end of October so Angela got permission from Florinda to have a birthday party with just a few friends from school. It wasn't anything fancy – only about ten people showed up, all told – but it was a gathering of her favourite people, and Florinda made all of Angela's favourites as snacks – and Dean would not shut up about the damned taquitos. There was music and people brought presents, and then they all watched the "Rocky Horror Picture Show."

But Dean really surprised her with his gift.

He'd come up to her looking all sheepish and flushed, ducking his head and patting absently at the buzzed hair at the nape of his neck. There was no box, no wrapping paper, and no bow adorning or embellishing the gift. Only Dean's broad palm clenched tightly to the secret treasure within before it eased open. Angela's heart did a frantic leap into her throat.

It was a necklace. A silver chain with a fine, delicate weave dangled daintily from his calloused fingers, with an intricately designed charm swinging prettily from its end. It looked kind of like a pentagram, only more detailed, more elaborate, with a starburst pattern or sun behind it, and its finish was rich and dark in parts, evidence of years of wear and tear. It looked old, like an heirloom, but beautiful and valuable in a way that used or second-hand gifts rarely were.

Angela had grasped it with barely trembling fingers to inspect it.

"I don't know what to say," she'd whispered, suddenly embarrassed.

Of all the birthday gifts he could have possibly given her, Angela would never have guessed Dean Winchester would give her a necklace. She'd thought for sure she'd be getting a Led Zeppelin CD or an ACDC t-shirt. This… this was so unexpected and _beautiful_.

"My uncle Bobby found it," Dean had said with a shrug, eyes still looking down at his feet. By now Angela knew that 'uncle Bobby' was actually some old guy from South Dakota who came to visit every now and again – a close family friend who'd lost touch after Dean's father got arrested. Dean didn't talk about him much, but it was obvious that he both admired and respected the guy. Angela had only ever seen the man from a distance a few weeks ago, when Bobby had shown up to take Dean on a weekend 'fishing trip,' but he'd looked gruff and kind of like a trucker.

"It's not uh, fancy or anything. But the chain's pure silver, and the charm's consecrated iron. I tried polishing it…"

"It's beautiful," she'd interrupted, sensing that he was feeling self-conscious. "I love it."

Then he'd met her eyes and grinned, and the heavens parted and the angels sang and every other cheesy clichéd thing that writers of silly love songs yammer on about happened. He smiled and Angela's heart melted to a puddle at her feet, and she nearly freaking died when he took the necklace from her hands and undid the clasp to tie it around her neck.

"Don't take it off," he'd whispered.

"I won't."

"Ever," he'd insisted.

"I won't." It was a promise she knew she'd keep. She'd wear this against her skin, right next to her heart, until the day she died. The fact that he wanted her to wear it always…? That was just gravy, made her giddy like the 14 year-old girl she now officially was.

She'd tried to draw up as much enthusiasm for the framed poster of Charlotte Bronte from Neil and the White Album on CD from Caroline, but the air was fuzzy with static electricity and Angela could scarcely keep herself in the moment without floating away. Dean had got her an heirloomy necklace for her birthday. It was old and important, well-worn and significant in a way that reminded her of the amulet Dean wore around his own neck (every day, under his school uniform, without fail). He'd got her a_ necklace_. It was a huge freakin' deal.

But if that weren't enough to throw her off-kilter, the surprise duet had nearly knocked her flat on her ass.

They'd just finished watching Dr. Frank N. Furter get carted off by Riff Raff and Magenta to the planet Transylvania, when the room had suddenly gotten quiet. In the immediate hush, Angela noticed that Caroline looked bright-eyed and determined as she shooed two people off of the loveseat to make room for herself and… Dean? And then Dean was sitting down, looking sheepish and highly put-upon, before Neil showed up with a guitar (and where the hell had he been hiding that?) and handed it to Dean.

"Now you _know_ how much we love you," Caroline had teased, "if we're willing to put our heads together," indicating herself and Dean, "to sing you a song for your birthday."

Dean slung the guitar strap over his shoulder and kept his head ducked down, a bright pink flush creeping across his cheeks and down his neck.

"Just so we're clear," he'd muttered. "This was entirely her idea."

"I take full responsibility" Caroline nodded sagely, winking at the birthday girl. "Because you're the best girl ever."

And then Dean had cleared his throat and began to strum, plucking out a familiar sweet riff that brought instant tears to Angela's wide, gray eyes. His strong hands strummed carefully, though with ease. Nothing fancy. Just pretty chords filling the air before the voices of his two best friends sang together:

'_Two of us riding nowhere,_

_Spending someone's_

_Hard earned pay._

_You and me Sunday driving,_

_Not arriving,_

_On our way back home._

_We're on our way home._

_We're on our way home._

_We're going home.'_

They were singing her very favourite Beatles' song.

'_Two of us sending postcards_

_Writing letters_

_On my wall._

_You and me burning matches_

_Lifting latches_

_On our way back home…'_

They sang in perfect harmony, with Dean taking the lower Lennon parts and Caroline taking the higher McCartney parts. It was sweet and melodic, just the way the song was meant to be sung: Dean's husky voice (when not strained with oversinging) acting as a perfect complement to Caroline's sweet, honeyed tones. And Angela found that she did cry, in spite of herself, when her best girlfriend in the whole world took up the chorus solo.

'_You and I have memories_

_Longer than the road that stretches on ahead…'_

Dean kept his head ducked down, his eyes closed as he sang, but Angela knew that, in spite of his embarrassment, his heart was really _in it_. What was more, he'd taken a part of the song and internalized it, and Angela could see _Sam_ behind those notes. She could see _little brother_ and _best friend_ and _family_, could picture a little boy's dimpled grin and bright, cat-slanted eyes every time Dean sang the words 'two of us' or 'you and me.' He was singing to her, in a best-friend, non-romantic kind of way, but he was thinking of his little brother, the light and life in his eyes, with every word he sang. And it meant more to her, when she really thought about it, that he would share _this_ with her on her birthday. It meant more that he'd invited her in to be a witness to that love, that he was including her in it in some way – even if it was only as an observer, as a friend pulled in along the sidelines. He was doing it for her, even though he was probably cringing inwardly at the grand gesturiness of it. He was doing it because it was her birthday, and he loved her in his way, the only way he know how.

'_Two of us wearing rain coats_

_Standing so low_

_In the sun._

_You and me chasing paper_

_Getting nowhere_

_On our way back home._

_We're on our way home._

_We're on our way home._

_We're going home.'_

When the last few chords faded from the guitar, the entire room burst into wild applause. It wasn't a large audience, but it was an enthusiastic one, especially with Angela clapping so emphatically that her hands stung. She was torn between bursting into (more) elated tears and hooting in approval.

"I can't believe you guys did that!" she'd managed to choke out through the lump in her throat as she gave Caroline a tight, warm hug. "That was so beautiful!"

"You should have seen them practicing," Neil deadpanned, smirking with glee. "Wasn't so beautiful then."

Dean scowled and flipped him the bird, providing enough distraction for Angela to swoop in for a much-needed hug from that quarter as well. She held on tight, breathed in the smell of his skin, feeling the hard muscle under his t-shirt where she clung to him as he held her in his strong arms.

"Happy Birthday, Ange," he'd whispered, earning him another squeeze before he pulled away to grin sheepishly at her once again.

It was the best birthday she'd ever had.

And later that night, when everyone else had gone and just the fab four of Angela, Neil, Caroline and Dean remained, tucked away in the inner sanctum of Angela's bedroom with sleeping bags and chips and music, the birthday girl was filled with such contentment that she felt her heart swell to fullness in a way that ached. She'd gorged on sweet, good things that day, had tasted the fruits of a life that was both simple and complicated, painful but beautiful.

Angela Platt knew what it meant to be happy.

TBC...

**End notes: ** If you don't know the song "Two of Us," you need to go download it and listen to it NOW. It's by the Beatles and it's from the Let It Be album. It's one of my all-time favourites of theirs (and if you haven't already gathered, Angela's Beatlemania is entirely based on MY Beatlemania). I hear that song and think of the relationship between two brothers on my favourite TV show. I also picture Jensen's husky voice singing John Lennon's part and do a little swoon in my heart. *sighs contentedly*

Thank you so much for reading! I love you all more than words can say!


	30. Chapter 29

**Chapter Notes:** As promised, I have the next chapter. The evil writer's block seems to officially be past! WOO HOO! The next chapter will be a bit delayed in coming, however, as I will be out of town for a week and a half and won't get much opportunity to work on it while I'm away.

I've been threatening y'all with something for months now and it happens in this chapter. You've been warned!

* * *

Chapter 29

So yes. It was officially official that Dean Winchester cared a great deal about Angela Platt. She'd been learning that with a steady stream of daily proofs of his own brand of prickly affection, his undaunted loyalty, for months. But it was different to have him suddenly invited into the fold, the holy trinity of Angela-Neil-Caroline. He was officially _in_. Heck, if Caroline was willing to practice with him so they could surprise her with a birthday song it was clear enough that he was pretty much a permanent fixture now. He'd been accfepted into the tight little trio to become the Fab Four. Just like the Beatles. Heck, Dean and Caroline had an oil and water thing going that could put Lennon and McCartney's worst rows to shame. It was all good. A nice fit.f

And then there was the necklace. Every night before she went to bed, Angela would look in the mirror and see it hanging at her clavicle, this beautiful reminder of what Dean meant to her, and what she meant to him. It stood as a testament of the depth of their friendship, a daily reminder that she held a tiny piece of his heart nestled snugly next to hers.

But knowing that you've got a place in Dean Winchester's heart and watching him fall for someone else? Nothing in the world could have prepared the love-struck teen for that devastating, soul-crushing blow. Everything went to Hell in a hand basket in November of 1993 when Kim fucking Kao moved to Phoenix.

It was no secret to anyone that knew him that Dean was girl crazy. He liked them tall; he liked them short; he liked them with dark hair, blonde hair, red hair, long hair, short hair. He liked them thin; he liked them curvy. Green eyed, blue eyed, brown eyed. White, black, and, it turned out, Asian. If it was pretty and it had boobs, Dean salivated like some kind of trained lab rat – or one of Pavlov's dogs. And while it was never easy watching Dean's eyes go vacant and kind of glassy as he ogled some passing girl, Angela had at least mostly gotten used to it. Since he was essentially a pariah at school, it wasn't like his attentions were ever returned (however much those girls might have looked interested right back – because let's face it, Dean was damned easy on the eyes).

But then Xiang Kao and his family moved to Phoenix, with their fifteen year-old daughter Kim, and suddenly Dean Winchester, skirt-chaser extraordinaire, only had eyes for one girl.

"Fuck, Ange, she's _perfect_," Dean breathed in a sharp hiss as the girl in question passed their table in the cafeteria at lunch hour. Her long, silky black hair was clipped back at the sides in two matching yellow barrettes and it swished in a stream down her back as she walked.

She was a tiny thing, barely standing at 5'3", but she was flawlessly pretty in a way that made her look almost unreal, like a doll. Gorgeous in a way that made Angela want to claw her damned eyes out, the snotty, stuck-up, know-it-all bitch. One year above them, Kim was a recent transfer from California and had her sights set on the honour role with a competitive streak that put Angela to shame. She was focused, determined and quiet in a way that spoke more of self-imposed reserve than shyness, but with a mind sharp enough and opinions strong enough that she spoke them when the occasion called for it.

Angela hated her with a devotion that made Simon Zealotes look subdued.

It wasn't strictly a matter of jealousy (though Angela was rational enough to admit that the green-eyed monster played a pretty big factor there). It was that Kim Kao represented, in Angela's opinion, all things that were wrong with the world.

She was like Angela's doppelganger, only prettier and _evil_. For instance, Kim played the cello, much like Angela played the clarinet, but Kim was too good to join the band or get lessons at school. _Oh no_, she had to have private tutors so she could make snide remarks about the amateur playing of everyone else that wasn't her. And instead of being put off by this high and mighty behaviour, Dean seemed to be turned on by it.

"See, that's dedication, man," he'd said wistfully one day after Hurricane Kao (or Cow, as Angela secretly liked to call her) rushed past. "That's… that's _hot_."

Dean also loved to wax poetic about how sexy it was that Kim was so smart. He'd talk dreamily to himself, musing to no one in particular (because really, no one listened when he talked about Kim) about how sexy Kim looked when she was reading, or about how smart chicks were babes.

It was like Kim Kao was everything Angela could be if Angela were prettier. It just wasn't fair that being beautiful made Kim, who wasn't even a nice person, rank so highly on everyone's radar while Angela remained pretty much invisible. Angela was smart (way smarter than Dean), and pretty talented as a musician. She was also nice (though she said it herself) and generous and didn't turn her nose up at other people.

Kim Kao had also turned down Dean's advances, with an emphatic, resounding 'no' _twice_, but that didn't seem to deter him in the least.

"You're so shallow," Angela said in the most bored voice she could muster as she twirled her plastic fork through a cooling Tupperware dish of noodles. "You only like her because she's pretty."

"Yeah, whatever," Dean muttered with disinterest, his keen gaze trained on Kim's form as she settled at a table with her friends. "I'm pretty sure Neil here's a flaming homo, and even he'd agree with me that Kim is smokin' hot."

"Hey!" Neil complained, affronted.

"Eyelashes like that and you're calling _Neil_ a homo?" Caroline jibed.

"You wish you were this pretty," Dean countered without taking his eyes off his prize.

Angela had to force her long fingers to veer away from the charm at her neck, had to stop herself from absently stroking the metal with nervous flicks, because it made her heart twinge in despair to remember how wearing Dean's necklace made her feel, all the while knowing that he didn't return her feelings. She'd been wearing the thing for exactly two weeks and already it had become a part of her skin, something she fiddled with and picked at and ran through her mouth like a cart on a rail line, zipping back and forth with absent-minded pulls while Caroline looked on in disgust as the silver chain cut into the meat of flesh at the left side of Angela's mouth and then the right with each pull: zip-to-the left, zip-to-the-right.

"I can't even begin to tell you how seriously out of your league she is," Caroline told Dean smugly. "And even if she didn't want to yak at the very thought of dating you – which she does, by the way – you'd still never stand a chance with her. Girls like her don't waste their time slumming it with guys like you."

Dean did manage to cut his eyes in their direction at that, shooting a heated, molten metal flash of green in Caroline's direction before pursing his lips in thought.

"I'm just curious about something," he mused. "Does being a supreme-assed bitch come to you naturally, or is it something you've been practicing at? I'm just wondering, 'cos you're such a fuckin' natural at it, it looks effortless."

"For you, it is," Caroline said sweetly.

Angela really didn't get what Dean saw in Kim Kao. Sure, there was the obvious beauty thing she had going for her, and sure she was smarter than most of the teachers at Albright Academy. But she was frigid and snobby, not deigning to lift her gaze in Dean's direction unless it was to sneer at him. How could Dean still like her when she was so clearly mean to him? Did being beautiful really make up for the gaping hole where her personality should be?

Angela didn't think so, but Dean clearly did.

He lusted after her with the most pathetic moony eyes she'd ever seen, holding open doors for her and offering to walk her home and generally humiliating himself in front of Kim and her friends at pretty much every opportunity. This pathetic behaviour went on for weeks, and Angela swore to herself that, given enough provocation, she'd put some of Dean's self-defense training to good use and clock that bitch right in her too-pretty face. Ugly her up a bit and see if Dean still liked her then.

A week before Christmas, though, brought an opportunity Angela hadn't counted on (and would later regret), when a walk home from the movie theatre led to some very unforeseen circumstances.

It was Saturday evening and they'd just finished watching "Schindler's List." Dean, Neil, and Angela were walking home in silence, each of them feeling subdued and overwhelmed by the sheer enormity of the horrors they'd witnessed in the movie. Dean, especially, was looking particularly introspective, his brow furrowed and his eyes trained on his boots as he scuffed at the ground with his feet and generally avoided meeting gazes with anyone.

Angela really missed Caroline's presence in that moment. Yes, it was totally girlie to be weepy and emotional over a movie, but in all fairness, "Schindler's List" was based on a true story, and the holocaust undeniably did happen, so it wasn't like her feelings of sympathy and grief over hideous acts of genocide were misplaced or unfounded. She was entitled to mourn thousands of dead, even if it was fifty years after the fact. But Dean and Neil were both guys, and even though Angela maybe kind of secretly suspected that Neil could possibly be a little bit gay (she hadn't failed to see the way his eyes sometimes lingered on Dean's butt, or focused on his lips when he was talking), neither of her two best guy friends were good for the kind of cathartic post-chick flick weeping that best girlfriends share when they've just suffered through something as emotionally draining as "Schindler's List."

But Caroline was in Vermont for the Christmas break and so Angela was the only representative from the XX camp and had to suffer her feelings in silence, without anyone to pour her bleeding heart out to. If she tried with the boys now, she knew Dean would make fun of her without quarter, especially because it was clear that he was feeling affected by the movie too. And when Dean came even close to emotional vulnerability, he joked it off or antagonized people until they were angry enough that they wanted to kill him. It was his way of avoiding his feelings, and it worked without fail at making her want to bludgeon him to death.

So no caring and sharing with Dean, then. She would just have to suffer her post-movie blues in silence. Maybe write an extra-long and weepy journal entry when she got home.

They cut through the park on their walk home, the late-afternoon sun glaring on the horizon as it began its daily descent West as dry earth and wilted grass crunched beneath their feet. There were no kids out now that it was past suppertime, but Angela did notice a group of people trailing not far behind them as they neared the swings at the centre of the park. She couldn't make them out through the glare of the sun, but there looked to be about five dark silhouettes grouped together.

She looked casually over her shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of their pursuers and only making out the tell-tale poochiness of matching bomber jackets and sleek, bald or close-cropped heads. Skinheads. _Oh holy crap!_

She wasn't sure, but she thought she'd seen a couple of them outside the theatre when they'd gone into the movie a few hours ago. Now it looked like maybe they'd followed them home. That was so _not good_. They must have been waiting outside the movie theatre, watching people go in so they could pick fights with them when they got out. Because, God forbid free-thinking people should watch a Jew-sensitive film about the holocaust, right? These neo-Nazi freaks were probably going to swarm them and beat the crap out of them.

As if on cue, one of the skinheads spoke.

"Hey, Chink bitch!" Snorts of laughter as the voices got closer. "I'm talkin' to you!"

There was only a moment's confusion before Angela noticed two other figures in the park – further ahead of them, and slightly to the left, walking close in step with each other – a tiny, dark-haired frame alongside another slim and slightly taller frame. She could just barely make out the angry, worried scowl on Kim Kao's face as she hurried her pace with her best friend in tow.

"Yo, Chinky!" another of the skinheads shouted. "C'mere for a sec!"

Now, Angela Platt realized several things at once. 1) Dean Winchester was a sneaky, lying piece of crap (who'd pretended – and she really should have realized there was a con going on – to be interested in seeing the latest heartbreaker Spielberg flick when really he was only going because Kim Kao would be there); and 2) a pack of skinheads were following Kim home and, if their racial slurs and jeering tones were anything to go by, were looking to maybe enact a hate crime. More importantly, coming in at #3) there was no way Dean was going to let those scumbag skinheads get away with hurting anyone, let alone the girl he was all moony over.

Things were about to get very, very bad.

"Come on," Dean hissed at her side, picking up his pace to a quick jog so he could catch up with the would-be hate-crime victim in question. He didn't wait for Angela's reply, didn't check to make sure that she was following – it was a command to follow and not a suggestion, spoken in his 'I'm taking charge' voice – but instead made his way to Kim and her friend without ceremony or pretense.

Angela and Neil scurried after him, both feeling static-charged and mildly terrified. A gang of skinheads looking for violence, even in the carefully groomed suburbs of Phoenix, was not something to take lightly.

"Hey," Dean said to Kim as he matched her step. "How 'bout an escort home?"

He inclined his head fractionally in the direction of the approaching gang behind them and Kim flinched before nodding, not making eye contact. Maybe, Angela thought, they'd be safe now that they were traveling in a larger group. Strength in numbers and all that. Maybe the skinheads would back off.

"I'm fuckin' talking to you!" a voice shouted from behind.

Maybe they were all going to get seriously _killed_.

"Chinky! Chinky-chinky-chinky!" another of the group sing-songed.

Angela picked up her pace as they cut through the park, hoping to make a hasty retreat to the other side where they'd be closer to houses, closer to witnesses. She felt her heart beating wildly in her chest, her stomach churning in awful knots as nausea rose like a wave inside her. Sure, she hated Kim with a fiery hot passion that was pure and true, but she didn't want anything _bad_ to happen to her. And she sure as hell didn't hate her because she was Chinese. This disgusting display of racism and aggression was like something out of a horror movie. It was just… _wrong_.

"We'll get you home," Dean said in a level voice, which was pretty shocking considering the absolutely livid look on his face. "We won't let 'em hurt you."

Kim did look up then, her big brown eyes wide and terrified, seeking reassurance. She swallowed and nodded, trusting in Dean's promise because she didn't have any other alternative. Angela could relate.

"Where you rushing off to, huh?" one of the skinheads taunted, his voice much closer.

Angela chanced a glance back and saw that they were pretty much upon them now, practically nipping at their heels, almost within reach. Two of the younger-looking neo-Nazis broke from the group to flank their prey, blocking their passage out of the park. Dean gave Angela's shoulder a reassuring squeeze as they came to an abrupt half, his other hand performing the same gesture on Kim's tiny, trembling shoulder.

"'s'okay," he murmured.

It really didn't feel okay. Angela was so scared she could feel a lump forming in her throat, tears daring to prick the back of her eyes, and any minute now she knew she'd start bawling.

There were five skinheads swarming in a group around them, their shaved heads glinting like polished cue balls in the glaring sun. Two of them, the eldest of the pack, were tall and huge, like tanks, while the remaining three were visibly smaller and younger. She'd guess at them being in their mid-teens, sixteen or seventeen, maybe. The bigger ones looked to be in their early twenties. They were all similarly dressed in matching camo-pants and Doc Martins with white laces, as well as black bomber jackets. The slighter of the two tanks had a dark goatee and a spidery-looking tattoo climbing up the right side of his neck.

"What's your hurry?" Goatee Guy asked, licking his lips suggestively as he eyed Kim up and down with a leer that made Angela's skin crawl. "Looks like you got your posse here and are ready for a party."

For all that she could be a snarky, mouthy, stuck-up bitch, it appeared Kim _did_ know when to keep her mouth shut. She inched closer to Dean, seeking protection behind his larger frame, but otherwise didn't offer up any reply.

"Well listen," Goatee Guy said to Dean, Neil, Angela, and Kim's friend (Angela couldn't remember her name). "It's awful nice of you to offer to walk the little China girl home, but we can take it from here."

It was a dismissal, and an offer of clemency. _Leave now and we won't hurt you too_. Well fuck that. Angela might be a cowering light-weight when it came to fighting, but no way in hell was she going to leave another girl alone and at the mercy of a gang of dickheads just to save her own skin.

"Angela," Dean said to her as his eyes remained locked on the skinhead who seemed to be leading the group. "You and Neil get them outta here. Go to my place – it's closest. Jane'll drive everybody home."

Wait – _what?_

"What are you going to do?" Kim's friend asked, sounding as terrified as Angela felt.

Dean grinned then, light and cocky.

"I'm just gonna shoot the shit with our friends here, right fellas?"

The skinheads snickered, clearly amused by Dean's plan to throw himself on the sword, so to speak. They didn't quite make a move to stop their escape, but by the way they fidgeted, Angela could tell they had no intention of letting them go, either. At least, not with Kim.

"You think you're impressing your girls here?" Goatee Guy taunted Dean with a sneer. "Because I'm pretty sure there's nothing impressive about getting your ass kicked, son. I mean, I get it," he admitted with a chuckle. "I do. The ladies love the hero type."

"You're not wrong," Dean acknowledged.

"You look like good, Aryan stock," Goatee Guy added, as though offering up that kind of compliment was a gift Dean should thank his lucky stars for. "Head on home now and we'll forget all about this."

Dean pushed his bottom lip out in thought, mock-pondering, before nodding in assent.

"Okie dokie," he said. "You heard 'im. Let's go."

He took Kim's hand in his and turned as if to leave.

"Oh no," Goatee Guy laughed mirthlessly. "She stays. We got business with Chinky Chan, don't we boys?"

Angela's heart sank like a stone into the churning acid in her guts. She'd almost thought they were going to walk away from this.

"Come on guys," Neil tried. "Nobody wants any trouble."

"You shut your mouth, faggot!" one of the younger skinheads snapped venomously. "Or you'll be next, after the cunt-eyed bitch."

Part of Angela felt as though it had floated away from her body. She knew they were in real danger now, especially considering how quickly the situation seemed to have escalated, but at the same time she almost couldn't believe that this was really happening. That there were people like this in the world, who could just hate you so much for no reason other than the fact that you were unlike them, was so baffling it made her angry and sad at the same time. And it frightened her, because there was no way to reason with these people. There was no talking the situation out, no wordsmithing that would win them free passage. They were well and truly screwed.

"Okay, we're done here," Dean said dismissively. "Angela," turning to her with bright, determined eyes. "Remember what I said. Get them home." Then, lowering his voice, "Just… run, okay? Run and don't look back. _Go!_"

She didn't know what it was that made her body respond the way that it did, but before she could stop to think about it she was grabbing Kim's slim wrist and yanking her away, half-dragging her through the park with Neil and Kim's friend matching her stride for stride. She didn't want to run, didn't want to leave Dean behind, but he'd done that thing with the Drill Sergeant voice and she'd just sort of snapped to in her terror, like some kind of sleeper-soldier operating on auto-pilot.

They managed to break far away enough from the fray that they felt they were at a great enough distance to pause and look back. The skinheads weren't following, too intent on Dean, who was clearly shooting his mouth off to get their undivided attention. They circled him like a pack of wolves, offering taunts of their own designed to humiliate him before they 'taught him his lesson.'

"We can't just leave him there!" Kim pleaded in a strangled whisper, pretty, brown eyes practically bugging out of her head. "They'll kill him!"

And suddenly Angela was standing on a bridge, frozen in terror as a mother's wails of 'My baby! My baby!' echoed over the rushing of water below. She saw Dean's face set in a look of determination before he turned on a heel and ran, vaulting himself over the side of a bridge with a drowning little girl below. A broken collar bone, dislocated shoulder, and sprained wrist remaining as souvenirs of an innocent life saved.

And right then Angela knew that Dean would do this thing, now, and would come out standing. He'd vault over this bridge, or throw himself to the wolves, and take the whole pack of them down. He'd do it for a drowning toddler, or a pretty Chinese girl, or his best friend. He'd do it and he'd _win_.

"No, they won't," she replied with certainty, turning in mid-step to halt her own retreat.

She wasn't going to run away. She was going to stay, bear witness to his act of bravery, and be the strong hand on the shoreline to pull Dean to safety if need be.

888

Dean Winchester was insane. Kim had thought he was a bit touched in the head, what with how many times he'd tried asking her out, but she'd never really thought he was crazy. Gorgeously handsome and stupid, yes, but not _crazy_. And if she had to be honest, even if it was only with herself, she kind of secretly liked the attention. It was pretty flattering when the best looking guy in the whole school rolled out the welcome mat and pretty much offered himself to you at every opportunity. She'd never had any intention of saying yes, mind you – her parents would disown her if she so much as gave him the time of day. But a teeny, tiny part of her had maybe even liked the guy for his tenacity and charm (and let's not forget the dimple in his left cheek when he smiled brightly enough).

She'd never have asked him to take a beating for her, though. And while she was beyond grateful that he was distracting those nasty skinheads from whatever plans they had set aside for her, she really didn't want Dean getting hurt because of it. Because of her.

"We can't just leave him there!" she heard herself whisper-shriek. "They'll kill him!"

_Better him than you_, her mother's voice whispered in her head, and she found she had to bite back the urge to cry. It would be wrong to use Dean's crush on her like this, to let him use himself as a distraction so she could escape, even if he was a nobody from the wrong side of the tracks. Her father, were he here now, would probably have a whole lot to say about how this was right, how she had a bright future ahead and Dean didn't. He'd say that she was going to Julliard or Harvard some day, while Dean likely only had life as a gas attendant or jail to look forward to. She'd told herself that enough times to keep her gaze from lingering on his broad shoulders or plush, kissable lips.

But it would be wrong. It would be wrong to just leave him here to face an angry gang of racist assholes just because he had a crush on her, but she was so scared she thought she might pee herself. Besides, there were five skinheads, and Angela, Neil, and Dean added to Kim and Holly made it at least equal numbers, if not equal odds. If they didn't put up some kind of resistance Dean would probably get beaten or stabbed to death.

"No, they won't," Dean's friend (Angela, Kim thought her name was; Dean had called her Angela) spoke, her voice breaking through her frantic thoughts, grim and certain and proud in ways Kim didn't understand.

She was about to protest when she caught part of the conversation between the neo-Nazi swarm and the resident Knight in Shining Armour.

"So this is how you get your kicks?" Dean was taunting. "Pickin' on girls half your age and half your size? Wow. They sure make 'em brave where you come from."

Several of the skinheads retorted at once, an angry cacophony of insults that blurred together in the fading daylight. The freaky-looking guy with the tattoo on his neck stepped forward and snarled something about Dean being a faggot chink-lover, his fists clenching with angry, restless energy. The guy was clearly bruising for a fight, anticipation and adrenaline etched in every tight line of his massive frame.

But Dean was completely relaxed, or he appeared so from where Kim stood. He stood at ease, his head tipping back with a chuckle as he offered up another taunt.

"Dude, make up your mind," he laughed. "Either I'm fudge-packin' or I'm hot for the Asian chick. It don't work both ways."

And here he tossed his head back for a casual glance in their direction, broad smile faltering when he saw that his friends had halted their retreat. His gaze darkened, brow furrowing only momentarily before he turned the charm up a notch, his grin returning to face the prowling skinheads once again.

"I'll give you a hint, though, guys: I'm a sucker for a pretty face."

"You've made a big mistake," the one with the tattoo growled. "We're gonna bust that pretty face of _yours_, and then we're gonna start on your slant-eyed girlfriend!"

Upon hearing those words, Kim's instincts instantly shouted at her to run. Runrunrunrun _run_ away from the angry Chinese-hating guys who wanted to hurt her. Dean the good-hearted _moronic_ pretty boy was buying time for her escape and she was just standing there gawking when she should be running, when she should be finding a phone and calling the police, when she should be doing anything but just standing there waiting to get beat up or raped or…

"Go home, Kim," Angela said as she grabbed Kim's shoulder to turn her around. "Dean'll be fine. He can take care of himself."

Kim wanted to tell the four-eyed geek to keep her hands to herself and to stop being so damned bossy. Holly was looking at her all big-eyed and hopeful, pleading without saying a word to just go, make their escape. And part of Kim was sorely tempted to do so, just take her new best friend's hand and run, leaving Dean's rag-tag group of losers to deal with this horror show on their own. But at the same time, it was insulting and humiliating to be ushered off like some kind of damsel in distress, like she was some kind of coward, like she couldn't face this like the rest of them could. Yes, she was short, and yes, she was the one the skinheads wanted, but if they thought she was somehow less capable of dealing with this than they were, they were all sadly mistaken.

She didn't have time to retort, though, because everything kind of unraveled all at once as the testosterone bubbling and boiling not far away reached maximum temperature and the fighting started.

It wasn't like in the movies. It wasn't coordinated with perfectly-timed close-ups and sound effects and cut-to's of knuckles cracking jaws or anything like that. The sound of flesh hitting flesh didn't crack like pool balls at high velocity; punches didn't snap like branches on trees. And the bad guys didn't take their turn in a choreographed fight that left the hero displaying his prowess one ass-kicking at a time.

No. The skinheads _swarmed_ Dean in a cowardly display of mob brutality. The guy with the tattoo grinned like a wolf and got off the first shot, an angry-looking punch that looked strong enough to fell an ancient sequoia. And Dean just… ducked. He dodged and wove and slipped right out from underneath them so fast Kim was sure the skinheads were punching each other in their lust for blood. Then he struck out with a viper-strike fast punch and one of the tank-sized men went _down_.

Someone snagged his arm from behind and Dean spun, cracking the guy in the throat with his free elbow so hard Kim heard the man gag. Then without missing a beat Dean lashed out with a side kick that caught one of the skinnier skinheads in the gut.

It was over in minutes. Dean fought with brutal efficiency, his punches so hard and fast they cracked against flesh in silent strikes that ought to have been thunderous. He took them all down, kicking and lashing and head butting when they got too close, when they boxed him in or grabbed him to hold him still. He was like a ninja out there, all lethal grace and fluidity, and Kim found she had to hold her breath as she watched him _dance_.

She'd heard a rumour about Dean not long after she started at Albright. Everyone said he was a hot shot bullshitter with an ego the size of Texas, that he bragged about taking on some mugger one-handed while his arm was busted up in a cast or something.

Looked like it wasn't so much a rumour as unbelievably, dizzyingly true. Because if her eyes weren't deceiving her – and she was pretty sure they weren't – she'd just witnessed him take on five guys at once (some of whom were much bigger than he was) and emerge victorious. She didn't doubt now that he could take on a mugger blindfolded with one arm tied behind his back.

He was… he was as terrifying as he was beautiful to watch. Like forged steel still hot from the smithy.

When the last of his opponents stilled, Dean straightened, sniffing and swiping a trickle of blood from his nose with the back of his hand before addressing them.

"You come near any of my friends again, I'll kill you," he promised them. "I won't bother with the cops or restraining orders or any dumb shit like that. I'll hunt you down one by one and cut your goddamned balls off. You got me?"

Kim couldn't hear from her vantage point if any of them replied, but Dean seemed satisfied by whatever groaning or moaning met his ears. He turned on a heel to rejoin his waiting friends but then thought better of it, pausing and turning his head to face the downed skinheads once again.

"And if I hear about any race-related hate crime bullshit, I'll know who to blame."

Then he broke into a quick jog to meet up with his own gang. When he got close enough that he could see his friends' waiting expressions, Dean's clouded face brightened like the sun, his grin so big Kim felt her stomach do a funny little flutter. That wasn't anything new, but it was unexpected, given the circumstances. She felt… strange. Like her skin was too tight. And Dean… He was so beautiful, so vibrant, so pure and righteous, like a warrior of God or defender of defenseless damsels.

"Hey!" he called out, grinning from ear to ear like the cat that ate the canary.

"I… _wow!_" Kim heard Holly stutter out in wonder. "You just…"

"You just _kicked ass!_" the tall chubby guy exclaimed in proud awe. "Dean… You're like… like Michael Keaton Batman!"

Dean positively preened under the attention, feigning a nonchalant shrug even though his eyes practically glowed green, so bright and so pretty with those long lashes.

"We should go," Angela cut in absently, her voice sounding kind of hollow and far away. "In case someone else comes."

Dean's head pulled back, his eyes scrutinizing as he watched his friend, taking his time, probably, as he tried to read her expression through those ridiculously thick glasses. (Kim was still trying to figure out how those two were even friends, what with Angela being such an ugly nerd and Dean being irresistibly pretty and buff and probably dumb as a post.) Then his eyes narrowed in suspicion and something flashed behind them before the grin was back in full force, his good mood unshaken by whatever vibes he was getting off Angela.

"You mind if we walk these ladies home?" he said before casting a wink at Kim and Holly, smug and cool and so sure of himself.

Kim's knees were turning to jelly.

Angela held still a moment, the tall guy next to her watching with a face sad with sympathy, before she pulled up a smile that looked carved out of wood.

"Sure," she said, all lightness and air in spite of the sparks crackling all around her. "Though I don't know why you're bothering bringing us along. It's pretty hard to woo the damsel when you've got an audience. Not that that's ever stopped you from trying…"

Yeah, Kim really didn't like Angela What's-her-face.

If Dean was putt off at all by his friend's jab, he didn't show it.

"Just figured we'd better stick together," he said. "In case they decide to follow the stragglers home?"

"I was gonna say the same thing, actually," tall chubby guy said.

The skinheads were slinking away, back to wherever they came from, it appeared, licking their wounds and sulking with their tails between their legs. But Kim sure didn't want to take any chances. Sticking together for the walk home sounded like a fantastic idea, in her mind.

"Right," Angela replied, shoulders tense. "Right."

They started towards Holly's house first, with Holly giving directions while everyone else trudged silently along. Kim felt she should say something, but the tension among the group was tight and weird. And she felt _weird_. And conflicted. And warm.

Angela was pissed and possibly sulking – which Kim didn't get at all. She'd been the one, after all, insisting that Dean could handle himself. She'd been the one with her gigantic eyes looking so fierce and proud as she assured them all that Dean knew what he was doing. She was the one that pretty much lead the group in Dean's stead: she lead them away and they followed; she stopped to stand by her friend, and they stopped and stood by with her. So what the hell was her problem?

"You mad at me?" she heard Dean ask quietly, and peeked over her shoulder to see him nudge the brooding geek with his hip. "Come on, Ange! What was I supposed to do, huh?"

"I'm not mad," Angela insisted. Though she clearly was.

"Then what?" Dean prodded.

Kim returned her gaze front and centre but left her ears trained on the conversation behind. Their foot scuffs were loud and crunchy in the dry Arizona earth, gravel scraping against worn soles where dirt collected at the edge of the street.

"Nothing," Angela stubbornly insisted.

"Awww," Dean drawled, and Kim grinned at the smile she could hear in his voice. "You were worried about me, huh? That's real sweet, Ange. Real sweet."

Then he yelped with an exaggerated _'Ow!'_ that suggested Angela had just hit him, and chuckled to himself. "All right! All right!" he surrendered, and the conversation fell after that.

They walked in silence for a few more minutes before Kim heard the crunch-crunch of footfalls jogging closer to her, turning her head fractionally to see Dean stepping up to her side to peer down at her intently, his eyes both bright and soft in the fading light.

"You okay?" he asked.

His freckles looked like flecks of gold in the light, like he'd been kissed all over by the sun – which was supremely unfair because freckles were imperfections and were not supposed to look so… edible.

_Oh God!_

"I'm fine," Kim insisted firmly. Then, clearing her throat, softened. "I'm fine. Thank you."

And she meant it.

If it hadn't been for him, Kim didn't know what would have happened today. She and Holly could have been seriously hurt, and probably would have been. Five guys against two girls were really bad odds, but Dean had been there and had fought the monsters away. He'd done that – for her – without Kim even asking. He'd saved her.

"Thank you," she repeated, looking up to meet his eye. "I know I haven't always been that nice to you… but, I really appreciate –"

"Don't worry about it," he shrugged. "I woulda done it even if you weren't the prettiest girl in school."

He grinned crookedly at that, mischievous and sheepish at the same time. Kim kinda wanted to kiss him.

If this were the movies, he'd have stormed over in a billow of steam with his shirt ripped open at the front and his hair ruffling in the wind, and their friends would have melted into the background while Kim and Dean came together and embraced for a passionate, curtain-closing kiss because Kim realized her deep and unrecognized love for Dean in the moment that he saved her.

But there was no kissing. There were no declarations of love, neither internal or external. The stars didn't align and the angels didn't sing.

But Kim did take his large hand in his, wordlessly twining their fingers together, and gave him an encouraging smile. Her parents were going to kill her. But she really wanted to kiss him.

TBC...

**End Notes: **_Runs and hides!_


End file.
